


The Man Who Would Be Dragonborn

by HossFeathers



Series: Ragnthor of the Isles [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Prequel, Random - Freeform, Short Stories, wandering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HossFeathers/pseuds/HossFeathers
Summary: A random collection of tales about Ragnthor, the main character from The Dragonborn Comes Home. These stories all predate the tale there and serve to give more details about what he has done than I feel i can fit into the main story. Because who doesn't love some coherent backstory.
Series: Ragnthor of the Isles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826251





	1. Beyond the River

Through the trees strides a young man, the stillness of the forest trail is so primeval that the tread of even a soft footed boot seems deafening. Nor is he as careless as he seems, striding through the ancient green vastness, miles from the last settler's cabin.

All the same, it is instinct instead of any warning of the senses which brings him to an abrupt standstill. The silence seems…too absolute. Whipping his head around he focuses on a branch. _Did that just move, even with no stirring breeze._

Instantly his hand is on his sword as he hears a heavy chopping crunch behind the wall of leaves. And, even as the bushes ahead shake violently, an arrow arches out, flying down the trail. The youth follows it with his eyes even as he ducks for cover. Then, from behind a thick truck he sees the bushes part, and a tall armored man step out. As he calls out the boy places him as a Nord.

"Come on out boy. All's safe now, there was only one of those devils." He waves his hand "Out Boy!"

"Yes..hold on, I'm coming," he sheaths his sword "My name is Balthus. I'm from Chorrol."

"Ragnthor, from Whiterun, and you're a long way from Chorrol boy. Step over here and I'll show you why you should have stayed in the safe part of the empire."

Ragnthor's pushes apart the bushes and Balthus gasps. "By the Gods, An Argonian!"

"Are you surprised? After all you're only 4 miles west of Black River."

"They told me at Velitrium last night, and again at the settler cabins on the road, that these devils sneaked across the borders sometimes." He shook his head and swallowed "But I never expected to see one this far from the interior."

Ragnthor shakes his head. "No settler is truly safe between Thunder River, which you would have crossed a ways back, and Fort Tuscelan. I picked up this one's trail 3 miles south of the fort this morning and been following it ever since. I came up behind him as he was drawing a bead on you, else there'd be a pale skinned stranger in hell."

He starts walking down the trail and Balthus hurries to follow. "You mean…you actually managed to sneak up on an Argonian?! I've never heard of any civilized man doing that, not even here in Conajoharra!"

Ragnthor smiles wryly "Don't be so sure I'm civilized, I'm no imperial soldier you know. I may draw the pay of an officer of the line but I do my work here in the woods. Valannus knows I'm more use ranging along the river than cooped up at the fort. Now what's your story boy?"

Balthus bristles "I'm not boy, for one thing. And I haven't decided whether to enter service at the fort or take up a homestead."

"All the best land near Thunder River is taken, and here you're getting too close to Black River. Argonians steal over to burn and murder, and not always alone. One day they'll try to sweep all of you Imperials out of Conajoharra. Can't say I blame them, it is their land really."

"Strange talk from a man in the service in the Governor of Conajoharra."

Ragnthor just shrugs. "It's nothing to me, I sell my sword to the highest bidder. It's been years since I worked the soil and will be many more, so long as there are other harvests to be reaped with the sword. And there will be, the lord holding this land refuses to send enough men to protect the settlers."

"The Argonians will never attack in force, they are too divided."

"So were the Orcs, years ago, until one man united them when the Bretons tried to push northward."

Balthus merely nods. "My uncle was in Venarium when the orcs swarmed over the wall. He was one of the few to escape the slaughter." Suddenly he realizes something. "But, you speak familiarly of Venarium. Perhaps you too were there?"

Not giving a glance back he strides on. "I was. I was part of the horde that swarmed the walls. I had barely seen 18 winters, and was an outsider as well, but my name was repeated around their council fires."

"Ragnthor…Ragnthor of the Isles! I've heard of you. Perhaps it's a good thing I'm not a Breton.

He shrugs again. "I bear no grudges. But, your once provinces have sheltered you imperials from the wilderness for too many centuries. You need hardening. Anyway, it will be dark before we reach the fort…Listen!" Balthus was left wondering at the hearing of the man as he yelled before he himself heard it.

Suddenly it cut off. "It broke off, at its highest note."

Balthus shudders "Ye gods what could cause such agony?"

Ragnthor whips his steel sword from its sheath. "We'll soon find out, Come On Boy!" he races down the trail, axe haft on his other hip beating a furious tempo.

While behind him Balthus puffs a curse. Among the men of Chorrol he is considered a good runner but Ragnthor is leaving him with maddening ease. He rounds a bend and barely sees Ragnthor dart off the path. Balthus follow, sliding down a sharp slope, where he sees the body.

"Sweet Mara! Did you see his killer Ragnthor?"

Ragnthor stands on the edge of the small clearing, pushing apart the bushes. "No…and maybe I'm lucky I didn't."

Balthus stood looking over the body, "Who did this? An Argonian?"

"No, it was a swamp demon. Look at his throat, slashed from ear to ear as if from a sharp blade."

"Gods! But who is he?"

Ragnthor stood, testing the edge of his blade. "His name is Tiberias, a wealthy merchant of Velitrium. And he's the fifth dead at the claws of the swamp demon."

"Again that phrase! What…"

"Use your eyes lad! Look closely at the throat and you'll see that only a talon could make that wound. The flesh has been ripped, not cut. You even hear of an Argonian wizard name Zogar-Sag?"

"No, I…"

"He lives in Gwawela, the closest village across Black River. Just shy of 3 months back he stole a mule train packing ale kegs that belonged to Tiberias. A woodsman named Soractus trailed him and led Governor Valannus and 3 soldiers to where he lay drunk in a thicket. I told them to kill him, he would be trouble if they left him alive. However they jailed him and he escaped, vowing vengeance. He's getting it."

"But how do you know he wasn't killed by an Argonian, which had an animal's talon."

Ragnthor crouched low and points with his sword to a massive, 3 claws track. "Did a man make that?" He stood, sheathing his sword and drawing his axe.

"Mara's mercy. What is that, I have never seen a beast leave spore like that."

"A swamp demon," he grabs a sapling he was eyeing and swings his axe "Thick as bats beyond Black River. No use trying to track him either," he tosses the tree at Balthus and starts working on another. "Tried that once, lost its trail in a dozen paces."

Balthus, understanding, starts lashing the sapling Ragnthor throws at him together. "You were tracking one of those demons?! Why?"

"It's my job. I told you Zogar-Sag vowed to kill Tiberias and the five men who captured him, in way that would make Imperials shudder for centuries to come. Well Tiberias is the fifth to dead at a demon's talon." He bent and picks up Tiberias and places him and the litter. "Soractus was killed along the river, 3 soldiers in the shadow of the fort. Each one, except old Tiberias here, lacked their head which is no doubt ornamenting the altar of Zogar-Sag's particular god."

As they bent to lift the litter Balthus asked "And we are going to carry him back to the fort?"

"Demon isn't going to get Tiberias's head if I can help it. I never liked the fat fool but losing heads set a back example. And it's only 3 miles to the fort."

They strode the path for a while, marking the passage of maybe a mile. "But, if Tiberias knew Zogar-Sag wanted him dead, knew the other died so horribly, why was he out here alone?"

"Each of the victims was smitten with madness before doom overtook him." He kept looking around, Balthus knew, despite not seeming to move. "Well, at least he took fright when we came upon him and didn't have time to take Tiberias's head."

"When you came up. You mean," Balthus mumbles. "It must not be a very terrible creature if one man can scare it." Suddenly a scream rose from the woods. "What was that!"

Ragnthor let go of the litter, drawing his sword and darting into the woods. "A woman's scream, probably a settler's wife! Stay Here!"

"Stay here with a corpse and a devil stalking the woods? I'm coming with you!"

"Suit yourself," Ragnthor cried back as he ran all the faster, "it came from over here."

The run was fast. "Gods and Goblins! How can anyone run so…why are we stopping?"

Ragnthor was crouching in front of him. "That cry came from this glade or near to it. I don't misplace a sound, even in the woods."

"Then where is she…Mara what is it now!" Shout Balthus as the scream rose again, behind them!

Then it changes into a bubbling, mocking cry of laughter. "Come on, unless you wish to be left this time!"

With a scorching oath Ragnthor runs at breakneck speeds, bounding over logs and rocks like a fox, Balthus staggering behind him sword in hand. Moments later he nearly stumbles into the Nord, who had come to an abrupt stop. "Shor…"

"What is it," Balthus says, only to stop short as he comes around Ragnthor, "Mother Mara…." Something is moving in the forest beyond. Something that glides like a serpent but isn't one. Something glimmering like a blue flame, yet taller than a man, outlines indistinct.

For a moment, old superstitions welling inside of him, Ragnthor stands there motionless. Then he hurls his axe "DAMN YOU, DEMON OF ZOGAR-SAG!" But the thing glides on, not altering its course as if it were an embodiment of blue flame, moving with reason and purpose through the darkening woods. Then it is gone, the forest seeming to wait in breathless stillness.

"It tricked us, damn it, with its accursed screaming. Should have known a demon can impersonate a woman."

"But why would it?"

Ragnthor grins grimly. "Follow me and gain some bitter wisdom boy." He pushes through the last bushes separating them from Tiberias "Now there's 5 heads decorating Zogar-Sag's altar."

"Gods," is all he says as he looks at the now headless corpse, blood slowly oozing from the fresh wounds. "But what it that thing that can scream like a woman and laugh like a devil, and shine like witchfire as it glides through the trees?"

"Swamp demon. Well, grab the poles, we'll take the body in anyway. At least our load is a bit little." With that grim philosophy he grabbes the leather loop and stalks down the trail.

* * *

Fort Tuscelan stands on the western bank of Black River, the tides of which reach the foot of the stockade. It is here civilization ends. For, in the dark forest on the other side, the primitive still reigns amid deep green shadows. Neither do the lizard men forget that, once, the land called Conajoharra was theirs.

"Who goes there!" a voice calls down from the gate.

"Open the gate, damn your hide! Can't you see it's me, Ragnthor!" Each moment seems an eternity to Balthus as he thinks he see and Argonian's face and demons blazing eyes behind each tree at their backs.

Suddenly the gate swings open. "That's better! I swear soldiers' way set my teeth on edge." As he feels the eyes on him jeers. "What are you oafs staring at? Never seen a dead body before?"

One of them, a hulking brute with half dead eyes, looks at it. "That's Tiberias, right enough. Recognize that fur coat."

"Aye, what of it?"

He points to the man behind him. "Gallus here owes me 50 gold. Told him Tiberias had seen the loon when he rode out this morning, glassy eyed. I wagered he'd come back without a head. I won."

Ragnthor curses low under his breath. "And they call us Nords barbaric." Dropping the body he strides off. "Let's go Balthus, before the crowd gathers. I need to talk to Valannus."

A dark haired man steps out from a low building, impressive mustache on his hard face not drooping in the heat. "And the Governor of a frontier outpost should be visible. I had begun to free the Argonians had got you at last."

"When they smoke my head, the whole river will hear it. They'll hear Argonian women wailing their dead as far off as Velitrium. I was on a lone scout, couldn't sleep. Not with the drums talking across the river."

Valannus shakes his head and walks in the building, Ragnthor, having to bend to follow. "The drums talk every night."

Ragnthor shakes his head. "It's been different since Zogar-Sag got back across the river."

"I suppose we should have given him presents and sent him home, else hanged him as you said to."

"Hard for you imperials to learn the ways of the outlands. Well it can't be helped now. There'll be no peace while Zogar-Sag lives and remembers the cell he sweated in." He grabs the rough hew cup of wine from Valannus and downs it in a gulp. "By the way the lad is Balthus. From Chorrol. He's come to help hold the frontier."

Valannus hands Balthus a cup. "I'm glad to welcome you young sir!"

He nods, taking a sip. "Glad to be here, Governor. Thank you."

"I wish more of your people would come. We need men used to forest life, as many of our soldiers and even settlers are not."

Ragnthor chuckles "Not many this side of Velitrium. But listen Valannus, might as well tell you. We found Tiberias dead on the trail, same as the others."

"What!"

"He went mad, rushing into the woods to lose his head, same as the others. It was a swamp demon, of some kind. We caught a glimpse of it."

"Do the soldiers know of this?"

Ragnthor stands and grabs the wineskin, filling his cup. "We left the body by the western gate."

"DAMN! You should have concealed the fact, hidden the body in the woods! The men are nervous enough!"

"It would have done no good, and you know it." He sits down and leans against a rough hewn support column. "The soldiers would find out one way or another. If I'd hidden the body it probably would have returned to the fort the same way Soractus was, tied up outside the gate for the men to find in the morning."

Valannus signs and looks out into the middle of the fort. "I suppose you're right, Ragnthor. After all, what do you really know about what that jungle hides. No man has plunged deep into that darkness and survived. Who knows what gods and devils are really worshiped in the forest, and the great swamp they say lies beyond." He turns back inside and pours another cup. "And this Zogar-Sag…The mages of the Imperial City would sneer at his primitive magic making, and yet he has driven mad and killed 5 men in a way no one can explain. I wonder if he himself is fully mortal."

Ragnthor smiles and he pours the last of the wine in his cup. "If I can get within axe throwing distance I'll answer that for you."

Valannus stares at him. "You puzzle me Ragnthor. The soldiers, who do not believe in ghosts and demons, are almost in a panic of fear. And yet you, who do believe in all manner of uncanny things, do not seem to fear the things you believe."

Ragnthor downs the wine. "I used to, in my younger days. But I've found there's nothing in this universe that steel won't bleed. I threw my axe at that demon and it took no hurt, but I might have missed in the dark. I'm not going out of my way looking for devils, but I'm not going to get out of the way to let one go by."

"More depends on you than you realize." He walks over and stands by his war table. "You know our weakness, a slender wedge thrust into the wilderness. Most of the army that conquered Conajoharra has been withdrawn. Even serpents and wild animals maul the men, until they to believe Zogar-Sag's boast that he can control animals."

"What do you want from me Valannus?"

Valannus slams his fist on the table. "Ragnthor, Zogar-Sag must die! Else the border may soon be left unguarded and nothing will stop the Argonian's westward sweep. Will you take 100 men, tonight, and try? I know it's mad, and I'm mad to ask it but…"

Ragnthor nods. "I'll go, if you let me pick a dozen men to go with me. A dozen can slip in and out where 100 couldn't. And I don't want any soldiers! They'll just…"

Balthus surges up. "Let me go! I've hunted deer in the forests outside of Chorrol my whole life!"

Ragnthor gives a wry smile. "Alright Balthus." He turns to Valannus. "I'll pick the rest from the stall where the foresters gather and we'll be on our way in an hour. If we live we'll be back by daylight."

* * *

The Black River is a vague trace between walls of ebony. The paddles which propel the long boats dip into the water as noiselessly as the beak of a heron. Balthus knows that not even the keen eyes of Ragnthor can see more than a few feet in front of him. The Nord is feeling his way by instinct and an intense familiarity with the river.

The young imperial recalls the plan, stated to himself and the foresters accompanying them back in fort Tuscelan. "We'll drop down to a point below the village of Gwawela, where the old witch-devil lives. Then we'll steal through the woods." It all seemed much simpler back then.

Looking around Balthus can see his other companions no more clearly than Ragnthor. Yet he remembers the look of them, before they had slipped out of the fort. They are a new breed, growing up on the edges of civilization. Imperials to a man, yet a world apart. They are wild men of a sort, shaggy and rough cut, clad in skins from head to foot with well worn weapons at their hips. Yet they are still sons of civilization, while the Nord in front of them is a wild man of a thousand generations of wild men. They have acquired stealth and craft, he was born with them. Balthus admires them, and is proud to be among them.

They are nearly a mile below the fort when Ragnthor lets out an almost inaudible grunt and they swing the boats about and glide to the opposite shore. The stars give little light and no one could have seen them cross.

As silent as a panther Ragnthor slides over the side and vanishes into the bushes. And 9 more men follow him, just as silent. Balthus settles himself to wait, and not a word passes between him and the other man left to guard the boats. Nor does any sound come from the bank, even the drums have been silent for hours.

Suddenly he hears something slap the water, like a big fish jumping for a bug. A bug that doesn't fly at night. He turns to the other boat and sees its stern drifting into the current as if the forest had let go of the root he was holding.

Balthus tries to get his attention, whispering "hey" but the man doesn't reply.

Clawing his way down the bank using root and tufts of grass he silently glides toward the other boat, thinking the man has fallen asleep. He reaches out to grab the shoulder of the man when, to his amazement, he crumples at the slightest touch. Dead, throat slit from ear to ear.

In that instant of horror and panic, Balthus surges up…only to feel a scaly arm clamp like a vice around his neck, silencing any cry. He doesn't remember pulling his knife, only those arms dragging him into the water and stabbing wildly. He feels the blade sink deep into flesh and hears a blood chilling scream rise in his ear. A cry that is equally answered.

As he claws his was up the bank, away from the now lifeless body floating behind him, the very darkness seems to come alive. The next moment he is driven back into the river by a hurling, dark shape. And, as he struggles with a foe that is too dark to see, something cracks into his head, making the night shine with fire before fading to a dark where even the stars don't shine.

Fires dazzle Balthus once again as his sense return. "Where…" then memory and understanding rush him as he realizes he is tied standing to a post and surrounded by "Argonians!" Even as he cries out he sees blood on the scales of some of them, signs of fighting…recent and deadly.

Outside the ring of warriors, fierce eyed woman tend to fires, which rise to hurt his eyes. And, even as he turns from them, he represses a cry a horror at the pile he sees there. The glassy eyed heads of the men who followed Ragnthor. He cannot tell if the Nord's head is among them.

Suddenly he becomes aware of another man near him. "So, they got you too."

Balthus nods. "Aye, snuck up in the water and slit the other man's throat. Mother Mara how can anything be so quiet."

"They're devils, that's how. They must have been watching us from the time we left midstream. We walked into a trap. Arrows ripped into us from all sides, most of us fell in the first fire. 3 or 4 broke through the bushes and came to handgrips with them but there were too many, far too many. The Argonians don't keep spies on the bank as far down as we were. We must have stumbled on a big party coming up the river from the south. Ragnthor might have gotten away though, haven't seen his head."

The man looks around and Balthus can just barely notice the suddenly, slight droop to the man's shoulders. "Better for you and me, lad, if they had killed us outright. There's some devilment up, there's too many here. They aren't all Gwaweli, some from the eastern swamps and from up and down the river. I don't know what…" Suddenly the hissing of the argonians raises to a deafening level, blotting out almost completely Balthus's ability to think.

Suddenly they turn toward a large tent at the far side of the fire circle. And someone dances out. Dressed in feathers and skins of the unknown things living in the woods and swamps of Black Marsh he strikes a worrisome figure. Balthus knows without asking that this is Zogar-Sag. With almost demonic leaps and bounds he dances into the rings of warriors, hissing towards he silent and bound captives.

Suddenly he freezes, and the hissing behind him abruptly stops. It seems to Balthus that the shaman his growing, starting to tower above him even thought Balthus knows the shaman is far shorter than himself. The young Imperial shakes off the illusion with great difficulty. The shaman is…talking…now, in his native language, hisses and jaws snaps mixed with hauntingly primal growls. He thrusts his long neck toward the wounded forester, who spits a dark red glob of blood into his eye.

With a fiendish howl Zogar-Sag convulsively leaps back and those behind him give a horrifying scream that shudders up to the stars. Yet, when they rush towards the wounded man, the shaman beats them back. Giving a jawsnap so loud it echos in Balthus's chest, he points towards the gate which he slowly being opened by hulking brutes. Then they race back to the circle, which hastily parts, as Balthus sees the women usher children into huts.

A broad lane is open now to the gate, beyond which the black jungle rules. A heavy silence reigns, only to be broken by Zogar-Sag. He screams out a…word. A word like something from the deepest hells. And somewhere, out in the black trees, there is a reply. Deeper and more primal than can be made by any race Balthus knows. The woodsman next to Balthus licks his lips fearfully, and the whole of the village stands silent. Zogar-Sag stands still as a statue, plumes trembling slightly around his. And then suddenly, the gate is no longer empty. Balthus feels the head on his scalp ripple as he stares at it. The creature that stands there is like something out of a nightmare.

Looking like a sabercat only twice as big, no one has seen one of these beasts in centuries. With its small head, the imperial scholars assume that it had overly large centers of the brain for processing aggression. So much so that it would fight anything that moved. Powerful enough to hunt the mammoths of Skyrim alone, even Balthus had heard the legends of hunters finding the 2 together, fangs of the cat driven so far into the skull of a mammoth it couldn't draw them back out.

It slinks past the pile of bloody head, for it only hunts the living. And an awful hunger burns greenly in its unblinking eyes. A hunger for death dealing as well as food. It halts before Zogar-Sag, like a hound before its master. And, when the shaman points to the wounded forester, it moves toward them in a crouch, drool dripping from the ends of its teeth.

Suddenly the shaman screams and the monster leaps. Balthus has never imagined such a spring, such an embodiment of hurtling destruction incarnate hidden in the iron hard thews and ripping talons. The woodsman has no time to even scream. The beast lands on his chest, snapping the post in its fury. Then, suddenly, it is gliding toward the gate, half carrying and half dragging the form that only vaguely resembles a human.

Cold sweat suddenly bursts on Balthus's skin as he strains against his bonds. What strange horror do they have in store for him? He feels the eyes of the Argonians on him, hundreds upon hundreds of cruel eyes which seem no more civilized than the beast of the forest. Suddenly Zogar-Sag sends another, yet different, cry into the jungle with a word that threatens to make his ears bleed and Balthus shudders at the implication.

This time, there is no answer, only a pregnant silence. Until, suddenly, there is a faint swishing outside the gate, a dry rustle that send shivers running up and down his spine. And then the fire lit gate is filled with another monster from men's long dead dreams. Balthus recognizes the beast, what the ancients called a ghost snake. Huge constrictor like folds yet also bearing fangs that deliver a most fearsome venom, with jaws large enough to swallow a bull. Valannus spoke truly, no man knows what haunts the great swamps a forests beyond the river.

Silently it ripples over the flat ground. With a glazed, hypnotized stare Balthus looks down the throat he will soon slide down as the snake rears its head back for a final strike. Suddenly something glints in the fire like and impales the great snake jut behind the jaw, causing it to have massive convulsions, whipping about trails of blood and venom. Knotting and looping fearsomely it rolls into the fire of warriors who attempt to flee its maddened spasms.

Suddenly Balthus feels something jerk at his tightly bound wrists. "Who the devil…"

Suddenly he is free and a hand grabs and pulls him along. "Come on, youngling, before they get over their panic."

"Ragnthor! It was you, then…"

Ragnthor shoves an axe into his hand. "Who else. Now take this and follow me." Without a moments pause he rushes into the hut Zogar-Sag had emerge from.

Inside, faintly lit by a fire, Balthus sees 5 humans heads set in place, with a grizzly familiarity to the freshest. "Tiberias!" the at the back of the hut he sees "Ragnthor, whats that dark idol over there? So much like a man, yet different? SWEET MARA ITS MOVING!"

"That's because its no idol boy, but a living thing chained by Zogar-Sag to guard his head. Let me handle it." The horrid shape heaves up suddenly in the gloom, misshapen arms stretching to the floor. With a grunt it leaps at the Nord, who swings his sword, cleaving it open from shoulder to the middle of its stomach.

In a way Ragnthor had predicted this moment, _there's nothing in this universe that steel won't bleed_.

"Don't stop to gawk boy, the stockade is just behind this hut. Were lucky the mad charge didn't carry them this way." Balthus nearly gasps in surprise as Ragnthor lifts him at arm's length as if he were a child. "Climb, you can do it! I've got something to take care of down here."

He throws and axe at an Argonian who just walked around a hut. He screams as the axe hits him, causing Ragnthor to curse. "Damn, didn't get him before his could make a sound. And I'd wager there are a few of those devils who've recovered enough to think about their escaping captive."

He is proven right as a handful run around the hut even as he leaps high, not catching Balthus's wrist, but his shoulder. Balthus groans as he feels the weight of a half armored man swing himself over, even as the arrows begin to fly. Then falls drops to the ground and they take off into the jungle, where terrors that may await them are far worse than Zogar-Sag's horrors.

"Which way to the river Ragnthor!?"

"We don't dare try for the river now boy. The woods between here and there are swarming with Argonians. We'll head in the last direction they'll expect, east."

Looking back through the brush to the not so distant fort, Balthus can see the head of the warriors looking over, surprised, having thought Ragnthor's lone attack the herald of an assault in force, even as the shrill roars of the wizard directs the men in slaying the now uncontrollable serpent. Roars that are soon deepened in anger as he find that they had escaped.

Ahead Ragnthor laughs grimly. "They'll be after us now. Damn that dog, if I'd but had a second spear…"

Balthus puffs slightly behind him. "I'm glad your priorities were as they were though."

Ragnthor is still breathing easy. "Just run boy, as you've never run before. You'll find Argonians get over their fear quickly."

They ran hard for a few minutes before Ragnthor spoke again. "They'll expect us to head to the river so we'll make good time on this trail, if you can call it that."

"But won't they try to track us by torchlight?"

"Even they can't track they well boy." Suddenly Ragnthor darts off the trail at full speed to run alongside for a moment before getting back on. "When we are far enough from the village we'll swing back to the river in a big circle. There's no other village beside Gwawela for miles, so all the Argonians will be gathered there."

"So we'll outflank them?"

"Aye, they can't follow our trail until daylight. They'll pick up our trail them but before dawn we'll leave the trail and take to the woods…"suddenly Ragnthor slid to a stop. "Something is following us," He whispers, "Give me your axe."

As he hands it he asks "Shouldn't we take to the woods, we can't fight the whole tribe."

"Not even an Argonian could have found our trail and followed us so quickly. Keep quiet."

Moments later Balthus's heart leaps to his throat as a savage form appears. Squinting hard the young man sees it is not the monstrous saber cat standing there, but a leopard snuffing the trail then moving forward uncertainly. With a start Balthus realizes the beast it stalking them! At that moment, its eyes glowing like balls of fire, the beast looks toward them. And, in the moment, Blathus's axe is a streak of sliver. Almost before he realizes what happened the leopard is in its death throes.

"Well that's one beast who'll tell no more tell to Zogar-Sag. And once I hide its carcass the Argonians who are no doubt following it will be delayed in finding us."

As Ragnthor heaves the dead thing over his shoulder Blathus asks "What do you mean, tell Zogar-Sag?"

"Use your brain boy, you yourself saw that shaman call forth both a monster snake and a saber cat to do his bidding. To say nothing of the inhuman beast he used to take Tiberias's head."

"Does he catch leopard cubs, then, and train them as blood hounds?"

Ragnthor scoffs. "Hardly, that was a leopard he called out of the woods. Now be careful, we don't want to leave any more spoor than necessary, so walk with care. Try to glide between the bushes and always place your feet where they leave the least track."

"I know what to do, but I'll be damned if I can do it half as well as you."

"You'll learn, or you won't last long in Conajoharra."

"What did you mean, called it out of the woods? I mean, if he can order beast to do his bidding, why was there only one?"

"He can't command all the animals, just those that remember Jhebbal Sag."

"That name, I've heard it somewhere, but I can't…"

"Once, all things worshipped Jhebbal Sag. But that was long ago, when man and beast spoke the same language. Men have forgotten, and even the beasts forget. But the few men and beasts who remember are brothers, and speak the same language."

"That's Impossible!"

"Aye, that's what more civilized men say, but no one can tell me how Zogar-Sag can call animals out of the wild and make them do his bidding. They' call it a lie, if they dared. If they can't explain something, they refuse to believe it."

Balthus shudders. "You won't catch me arguing. Maybe we are just more superstitious in Chorrol than the rest of Cyrodiil. And the things I have seen here…."

They pushed into a small clearing, "They say there is a clearing sacred to Jhebbal Sag in these woods but I've never…wait."

Balthus stops, spine prickling as Ragnthor stoops and scratches a strange symbol in the leaf litter. As he does so there is a windless rustling of leave and a faint moan in the boughs above.

"What is that Ragnthor, I've not…"

"I first saw this carved in the rock of a cave no soul had been in since before the first era, west of Yokuda, half a world from here. Later I saw a witch-finder from Hammerfell scratch it in the sand of a nameless river. He told me part of its meaning, it's sacred to Jhebbal Sag, and those men and beast who worship him. Watch." With that they faded into the woods and the far side of the sign.

To the east, drums mutter. And other drums, to the north and west, answer. Then they see it, and Balthus shivers as a dark shape pushes through the bushes. A black panther glides like a black shadow in the moonlight. It too is following their trail. It moves to the symbol drawn moments ago by the Nord hidden in the bushes and Balthus would swear aloud, if he dared, as he beholds the awe and admiration in the beast's eye as it touches the symbol with its muzzle. He doesn't breathe and Ragnthor turns into a statue cast in steel.

For a long while the panther crouches there motionless. Then it slowly begins to slink backward carefully, belly to the ground. The next instant it wheels as if in panic and vanishes from the clearing in a flash of dark light. Balthus has seen Ragnthor's eyes as all this has taken place. They smolder with fires that have never been lit behind a truly civilized man. Balthus feels that he has seen shadows from life's dawn; ancient, primal phantasms, nameless and unaged.

Then the deeper fires as masked and he is beckoning Balthus further into the forest. "We've no more to fear from the beasts…but we've left sign for men to follow. Come, we've got to warn Valannus!"

"Warn him of what?"

They run for a while before sliding down the bank of a small stream. "The woods are swarming with Argonians, That's why they got us! Zogar-Sag is brewing war magic this time, no mere raid this time."

"Why would he dare attack the fort when they've repulsed so many raids before?"

"Zogar has done something that hasn't happened in near 200 years. He's managed to unite 16 or more tribes."

"How do you think he has done it?"

"With his magic of course. An Argonian would rather follow a wizard than a war chief. The warriors you saw in the village were only part of his force. More are coming, from the farther villages."

They stop to drink, the first water they had had in hours. "How many do you think he can muster in all?"

"Near to 3000 fighting men, damn him. After the ambush that killed the foresters I laid and listened. They mean to attack the fort. I don't know when but it can't be long. He's whipped them into a frenzy. And if he doesn't lead them to battle soon they'll fall to fighting amongst themselves. They're blood mad, everyone."

"Do you think they can take the fort?"

The big man merely shrugs. "Don't know. But we've got to get back across the river and warn the settlers. They need to head to the fort or to Velitrium."

Balthus wipes his lips and stands. "You think they'll be attacked as well?"

"Aye, the Argonians mean to drive you all from Conajoharra. I wouldn't be surprised if their war parties cross the Thunder River and raid the thickly settled land beyond."

As the start to move again Balthus speaks "I've been meaning to ask how you escaped the ambush?"

"If more border men would wear armor there would be fewer skulls in altar huts. Thing is, most men make noise in armor. I don't."

"Still they ambushed you…"

They started up a small hill. "They were waiting for us already when we came otherwise I'd never been taken by surprise. When an Argonian stands motionless even the beasts of the swamp pass them by. Still I escaped… and knew from their drums they had taken someone alive."

"The forester the great cat killed. And myself."

"Luckily they were so engrossed in the ceremony that I was killed to kill a guard. Was his spear I threw, and his axe you're carrying."

"But what was that, that thing you killed in the hut?"

"One of Jhebbal"s children that didn't remember and had to be kept chained. It was one of Zogar's gods, a bull ape. Some Argonians believe they are sacred to Gullah, the hairy gorilla who lives on the largest moon." They crest the top of the rise. "Well, it's getting light. Here's as good a place to rest as any, and defend it they find our trails soon than I hope. Probably have to wait until nightfall to head back to the river." With that he leans his back against a tree and sleeps.

A few hours later he wakes and notices Balthus still sitting, to nervous to sleep. As soon as Balthus see him he asks "Those were fellrunner plumes Zogar wore. Where did he get them?"

"East of here, many marches, lays the sea shore. Ships, both merchant and pirate, trade with the Argonians. Argonian shamen place great store in those plumes and pay good prices."

"Who would you know that?"

"Sailed that coast, and many other, when I was with a band a pirates, years ago."

"I knew you hadn't spent your whole life on the frontier. How widely have you traveled?"

"Farther than any other of my race. I've seen all the great cities, even a few of the Aldmeri when I was raiding their shores. I've roamed Akavir, Yokuda, Pyandonea and the islands beyond. Been a mercenary captain, a corsair, a desert raider, a penniless thief, Hell I've been everything except a king and that's one job I'd never want. How long I'll stay on the border, I don't know. But it's as good a life as any for now." He pushes himself to his feet. "Well, the Argonians have lost our trail else we'd be up to our necks in them by now. They must be preparing to cross the river. This is our chance."

As they stalk through the woods toward the river Balthus asks "Do you think they'll cross the river before nightfall?"

"No. Some woodsman would see them and raise the alarm. Some will cross above and below the fort and hide out of sight of the sentries. Then, when the other attack from across the rivers the hidden ones will attack the fort from all sides. They've tried that before but this time they have enough numbers to make a real go of it. We've got to reach the fort, and stop for nothing."

"Including food I assume. I haven't eaten since I first met you."

Ragnthor chuckles. "There's plenty of food at the fort. Anyway, here's where we'll cross the river."

"Can we be sure they haven't already crossed and the woods are alive with them?"

"You're a worrier Balthus though I don't blame you I guess. Thing is we've got no choice. We're about 6 miles south of Gwawela and…" suddenly something flashes across the clearing and Ragnthor draws his sword just as fast, deflecting the arrow. "DAMNED ARGONIANS!"

Ragnthor moves so quickly he is a blur, his sword a dull silver gleaming swath. But the next instant Balthus hears a death scream and knows Ragnthor found his unseen archer. And as hisses and roars rise a half dozen more. The roaring Nord is lowering the odds however with massive swings of his sword, severing limbs and torsos alike even as the young Imperial bursts through the bushes.

In time to barely avoid a savagely hurled spear. For a spilt second he wonders which of them threw the weapon, a wondering that is soon answered as the self same Argonian leaps after it with swinging fist and up raised axe. The Argonian is like a beast, muscles as hard a steel as he knocks the young man down with the weight of his body. Still, the Imperial manages to avoid the blow and his axe stikes home, cleaving the lizards skull. He pushes the dead body off and looks around wildy for Ragnthor, expecting him to be overwhelmed with numbers.

It is then he fully realizes the strength and ferocity of the Nord. 2 attackers fall back, shorn completely in two by the heavy broadsword and then a third is impaled by the cold steel a moment later. Another one, smarter than the rest, grabs his bow off the ground. Ragnthor's reply it to hurl his sword, driving it to the hilt in the creatures chest. The last 2 rush him and, unarmed, it seems he must surely fall. But Balthus is there to hurl his axe with such deadly skill it reduces the attackers to one. The remaining one, however, has 2 weapons to Ragnthor's none and leaps, striking with both. The knife breaks on the Nord's plate and the axe hand is grabbed in midair, as Ragnthor's hand closes on the leaping Argoanian's throat, cutting off its savage roar. Those iron fingers tighten and Balthus hears a bone snap. Then next moment he is hurled to the ground, rebounding once like a broken doll, then lays still, limp posture telling on a broken back and shattered limbs.

"Come On Balthus! Grab a bow and arrows and run. That was a roar they heard so we must trust our heels again. They'll be on us in no time."

"Back into the woods? But I thought…"

"If we tried to cross the river now they'd feather us with arrows before we reached midstream." Ragnthor does not plunge deep into the woods though, and Balthus recognizes a grim determination not to be turned from the river they must cross to warm the fort.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, Ragnthor stops. "I can't hear the yells anymore."

"Sneaking up on us maybe." Balthus is suddenly aware he is gasping for breath and it feels like he hasn't eaten in a year.

"No, they've gone back. A short chase like this they would scream and roar every step of the way. They've been recalled. Good for us but damned bad for the fort. It means they are being summoned out of the woods to make ready for the attack. The ones we ran into were from a tribe farther down the river, doubtless headed to Gwawela to join the assault. And now we're farther away than ever. DAMN IT We Have Got To Get Across That River!"

Turning west they hurry through the thickets with no attempt at concealment. Following Balthus feels a cosmic loneliness, for despite his admiration, Ragnthor is as much a part of the wilderness as he is far from it. Despite years roaming between the great cities he is still a wild northman, even as a wolf is still a wolf despite brushes with guard dogs.

Suddenly they stop. "Hold," the big man whispers, "out there on the river."

It is only then the Balthus hears the rhythmic spashing and peers through the leaves to see a dugout canoe with a lone body in it, fighting the current.

"That's a Gwaweli man, emissary of Zogar-Sag. The white plume shows it. Must have carried a peace talk to the tribes down river and now he's trying to get back in time for the slaughter."

The nest moment Balthus nearly jumps out of his skin as Ragnthor cups his hands around his lips and slams his jaw shut in a perfect imitation of an Argonian, followed by a hideous hiss. The man starts then scans the bushes on both sides of the river before turning toward the watchers from Fort Tuscelan.

Not understanding Balthus watches as Ragnthor takes the bow from his hand even as the Argonian slides in close to the bank and issues forth the same harsh sounds. His only reply is the twang of a bow and the shriek of an arrow that buries itself in his broad chest. He is dead by the time he hits the water.

"Wh…what did you say to him?"

"Quick, come here. A simple phrase I learned from an Argonian pirate who was on my crew."

"Doesn't seem fair, he thought a friend was speaking to him. You mimicked one perfectly."

"Only way to get him to the bank. We needed his boat. Which is worse, betray an Argonian who'd even smoking our skulls, or the men across the river whose lives depend on us getting across the river." Balthus stays quiet.

A short while later. "How far are we from the fort?"

"About 10 miles. And we'll go on foot from here."

"Why not keep the boat?"

"If they're crossing the river we might run into them. Besides we'll reach the fort fast on foot."

They have gone maybe a mile before Ragnthor speaks again. "Valannus wanted to build forts at the mouth of North and South Creeks, then the river could be patrolled constantly. But the damned government wouldn't do it and recalled the very troops that had captured Conajoharra."

"Why wouldn't they listen to Valannus?"

"Soft bellied fools sitting on velvet cushions while naked serving girls pour wine from their knees, I know the breed. 'Diplomacy'. Hell, they'd fight the Argonians with theories of territorial expansion. They'll never grab any more Argonian land, any more than the Redguards will rebuild Venarium. In fact the time may come when the Argonians, Nords and Orcs overrun the border cities and then it will be….Look There!"

"What's there Ragnthor, I can't see as well in this gathering dark…why it's a dog!"

"Aye, I remember him. Argonians killed his master and we found him in the middle of 3 Argonians he had killed, laying slashed to pieces. As soon as he recovered he turned wild. What now Slasher, you still hunting those who killed your master?"

"Slashers his name, eh, well…" he reaches down to rub the faintly snarling dog's head.

"Watch it, he's not been petted in some time."

He kept rubbing the dog's head. "He's alright now, he'd just forgotten for a moment that he isn't a wild thing. Strange, I remember the sleek, well-fed hounds on my father's estate. I guess the frontier is no less hard on beasts as men."

"Let him come with use then, he can smell those devils before we can see them."

The miles fall under their steady stride, as the last of dusk fall into darkness. Slasher leads in a grim silence, until he halts suddenly, ears pricked. A moment later the men hear it, a demonic roaring.

"We're Too Late! THEY'VE ATTACKED THE FORT, COME ON BOY!"

The sounds grow louder as they run, the roars mixed with the yells of the soldiers. Then, just as Balthus fears they will run into the very midst of the fight, Ragnthor swings away from the river in a semicircle that brings them to a crest of a small rise where they can look down over the forest.

"Well, there's the fort boy."

"Mother Mara…"

Roaring like beasts hundreds of painted warriors storm the eastern wall, weapons in hand, dodging arrows and, as they start to climb the walls, large rocks and logs. Torches thrust into pole over the walls give a flicking, uncertain light over the clearing. On the far side the river itself swarms with canoes. And even as boat sink with thrown boulders and bodies fall filled with arrow, one fact remains…

"They've completely surrounded the fort, damn them."

"Should we try to break through?"

"What for, to die with Valannus? No, that fort is doom. But that's not the half of it. Do you know why they aren't trying to burn down the fort with fire arrows? Because they don't want a flame to warn the settlers. They plan to stomp out the fort and sweep westward. They may cross Thunder River and take Velitrium before anyone knows what happened." He turns and starts walking down the rise. "Well, we failed to save the fort. But we can at least warn the settlers west of here and get them started down the road before it is too late."

Balthus follows, shaking his head. "If only we had gotten here sooner."

"Would have done no good, fort is too poorly manned. I see that now. A few more charges and the Argonians will be over the walls. Our duty is too the settlers now so let's move. It's 19 miles to Velitrium, and five to the first of the settlements over at Scalp Creek."

It seems to Balthus that they have been running and fighting centuries. Yet he still bold runs on, following the unflagging Nord. Suddenly Slasher stop, savage growl bubbling up out of his chest.

"Argonians ahead."

"How many?"

"Can't tell, most likely a small party who couldn't wait from the fort to fall and went ahead to butcher settlers in their beds." They hear the chanting and yell even before a small fire lights their way. "Well boy, there's your enemy."

"Merciful gods…"

Around a burning ox cart five Argonians dance wildly, with bloodied axes. Nearby a man and a woman lie dead in the road, throat cut and mutilated beyond identifying of sex. At the sight a red haze fills Balthus's eyes as he draw an arrow back all the way to his ear. With a twang it flies to bury itself in the neck of one of the dancing beasts. Then the three of them run forward to deal with the survivors. Ragnthor his animated purely by his fighting spirit but Balthus is afire with fury. Even before the first Argonian who opposed him has fallen, chest spilt wide open, he springs over the body in search of a new target. But Ragnthor stand wiping his sword over the 2 he has slain and Slasher turns from the body of the fifth, great jaws dripping blood.

Balthus says nothing as he looks at the bodies laying near the wagon. Both were young, younger than him even. By some wind of fate they left her face unmarred and even in the agonies of a savage death it is beautiful. A mist fills his eyes even as bile builds at the back of his throat and he turns away.

"Some young couple, just starting out on their own, heading to the fort when the Argonians found them." Ragnthor starts walking. "Maybe the boy was going to enter the service or take up land on the river. That's what's going to happen to every man, woman, and child this side of Thunder River if we don't get them toward Velitrium in a hurry. Here's a trail leading north from the road."

"How can you see it in the dark?"

"Trained eyes. You'll…damn. See the wagon tracks, must be the settlers going to the licks after salt. Licks are at the edge of the swamp, nine miles from here. Damn it, they'll be cut off and butchered."

"Is there anything we can do?"

Ragnthor nods. "There is. One man can warn the people on the road while the other heads to the lick. You go ahead and warn the settlers on the road and herd them to Velitrium in a hurry. I'll reach the men by the licks. We won't come back by the road. We'll head through the woods." Without another word he takee off and hastens down the trail. Balthus stares after him for a few moments then set off up the road, Slasher gliding at his side.

Crossing Scalp Creek the Imperial youth comes across the first cabin. He runs up and beats on the door. "GET UP! THE ARGONIANS HAVE CROSSED THE RIVER!"

The door opens and a woman in a simple night dress appears. "Come in! We'll hold the cabin."

"No, we've got to make for Velitrium. The fort can't hold them. No time to dress, just grab your children and come."

"My man has gone off with the others for salt."

"Ragnthor has gone after them. We must hurry up the road to warn the other cabins!"

She sighs and lets him in. starting to wake the children. "If the Nord has gone after them they are safe, if mortal man can save them."

"You have a horse?"

"In the stable." She turns to her children. "Wake up, the Argonians are coming."

Balthus curses as he catches the only horse in the stable and leads it out. "It will have to do."

The woman comes out holding an axe. "The children will ride her, I'll walk."

He hands the woman the horse's lead and puts the children on its back. "You hold tight to the mane and each other." As they talk off down the road he says "You have taught them well not to cry."

"Frontier children cry only once, at birth, and never again." Balthus knows that, if cornered, she will fight with the fury of a she cat. But he keeps think of the fort, those Argonians drunk on blood and slaughter.

Soon they are at another cabin, men likewise gone, that soon follow behind. One of the women mentions a young couple that passed by. Balthus says a few words and the subject is closed. Soon there are a handful of women and twice as many children. Led by Balthus they are moving as fast as practical when suddenly Slasher growls as a shriek sounds in the woods.

"An owl." One of the women says.

"A painted owl, with an axe in his hand. Go, rouse the others down the road and take them with you, I'll scout behind." Without a word the older woman herds her charges ahead.

As they fade into darkness Balthus remembers his own people in Chorrol and a moments giddy weakness swims over him then "come one Slasher, we've work to do."

Soon a red glows comes through the trees, the Argonians have fired the last hut. "Zogar-Sag would have their hides if he knew. Still, the fire will do my job for me, warning those up the road." Then, their bloody work done, the Argonians move out, in the direction of the women and children. "Damn, they'll catch up to them inside of a mile, unless…" He lets loose and arrow that buries itself in a scaly breast.

As their brother falls the rest of them melt into the bushes on either side of the road and Slasher whimpers in bloodlust beside the young Balthus. Unknow to the young Imperial an Argonian is closing in behind him, creeping ever closer to the large stand of fallen timber Balthus waits in. Suddenly Slasher snarls and turns turn, letting fly an arrow in that same direction and is rewarded with a hiss a pain. Even as the hiss Argonian his limping away, Slasher bounds over the fallen timber. The bush shakes horribly, the inhuman growl mixing the hiss gurgles, then the dog slinks back to Balthus's side, jaws dripping red.

He rubs the dogs head. "Good boy."

No more Argonains appear on the trail, and Balthus wonders if they are sneaking past him in the woods. Then it happens. The Argonians come in a sudden rush, braking cover on both sides of the trail. Once again there are five of them. But Balthus takes no time to muse on the fact and he bends the bow, and 3 drop with arrows in their chests. The remaining pair hesitate, with one turning back. But other redoubles his speed, leaping over the surround logs, axe held high. Balthus tries to dodge, and slips. But that slip saves his life, the descending blow shaving a lock of hair off his head. The force of the wasted blow sends the Argonian hurtling to the ground. Slasher is there and makes it so the Argonian will never rise again.

The dog is limping when he comes back to his newfound master, yet neither whimper nor word is exchanged between them. The strong bonds are shown without speaking. Then comes a period of waiting, during which Balthus wonders if the one who fled is coming back with others. _No matter_ he thinks _each passing moment increases the safety of the women and children hurrying toward Velitrium._

Suddenly, without warning, a hail of arrows whistle over his hiding place and roaring rising from the trail. As if sensing he has no arrows left, they close in silence. Fiercely Balthus hugs the head of the great dog growling at his side. "Give them hell, boy." Slashers snarl is the only reply he needs.

The next moment Balthus leaps to his feet swinging, even as dark forms flood over the logs, his axe severing the neck of one. A swift battle is waged, filled with flailing axes, stabbing knife, and ripping fangs. A battle lost from the waging.

* * *

When Ragnthor turned from the Velitrium road he had expected to run slightly more than nine miles, and had set himself to the task. Yet now he had scarcely gone four when he abruptly hears a party of men before him. From the sound they are making he knows they aren't Argonians.

He calls out in the dark "Ho Party!"

A voice comes back "Who's there? Stand where you are until we know you or you'll get an arrow."

Ragnthor walks into view. "You couldn't hit a mammoth in this darkness."

"You're Ragnthor, the Nord from Fort Tuscelan."

"Aye, but fort is no more, the Argonians have crossed the river."

The lead man nods. "We thought as much. Casius here track an antelope nearly to Black River when he heard the yells and ran back to tell us. We left the salt and wagons to come as swiftly as we could."

Another spoke. "If the fort has fallen war parties will be ranging up the road to our cabins, we must…"

"Your families are safe, my companion went ahead to take them to Velitrium. If we go back by the main road we may run into the whole horde."

"So what do we do?"

"We'll strike southwest through the woods. You go ahead, I'll scout behind."

A few moments later the whole band is hurrying through the woods, with Ragnthor dropping back further and further cursing the noise they make. A band the same size of Argonians or Nords like himself would have move with no more sound than the wind through the grass.

As the men finally fade from sight Ragnthor wheels, instinct telling him he is being followed. Then a voice floats through the trees. "Ragnthor…"

"Balthus?"

"Ragnthor. Ragnthor! Wait for me!"

"I hear you boy, I can tell your voice, I'm coming. But what in the hell…shor's bones…."

He drops to a half crouch, skin on his spine growing tight. For it is not Balthus that emerges from the other side of the glade, but a weird glow that moves towards him. A blue witch fire that pulses with intensity.

It speaks in a faint, flowing voice. "why do you stand there like a sheep waiting for the butcher ragnthor?"

Ragnthor bristles. "Sheep?! Do you think I'm afraid of a damned Argonian swamp devil! A friend called so I came!"

"i called in his voice. the men you follow belong to my brother, i would not rob his knife of their blood. but are mine. you have come from the grey hills of skyrim to meet your death in conajoharra."

"You've had your chance at me before now. Why didn't you kill me then, if you could?"

"my brother had not yet whispered you name to the black ghost that haunt the uplands in the dark lands. but now a bat has flow over the mountains of the dead and drawn your image in blood on the white tiger hide the stand before the house of the four brother of the night…"

"Enough mumbo jumbo. Why have the gods of darkness doomed me to death?"

The voice grew in intensity as it stretched to the ground. "Behold this symbol, Ragnthor, which fades even as I draw it. You dared to make a sign only a priest of Jhebbal Sag dare make. You race is run, you are already a dead man. Your head will hang in the altar hut of my brother."

"Show yourself! I would see what you look like, you who leave a track like a bird, burn like a flame and yet speak in this language. I would see you, and know whether a sword could harm you. And who is this brother you speak of? ANSWER ME DAMN YOU!"

"You shall see and carry the knowledge to the dark lands." The fire fades and what is standing there is an unholy union of Mer, Argonian, and bird. Thin in limb it stands taller than himself and he knows it would have strength far great than looks would show. "Zogar-Sag is my brother, a child out of a woman of Gwawela who slept in a grove sacred to Jhebbal Sag. I too am a child of Jhebbal Sag, out of a fire-being in a far realm. Zogar called me out of the misty lands and bound me to him. His thoughts are my thoughts, if one of us is cut, the other bleeds. But I have talked enough…"

Suddenly the red eyed devil is standing over him, even though he didn't see it move. And, even as he barely avoids a blow that tears his horned helm from his head he knows why the others died so easily. It was fear that slew them, as much a raking claws and slashing fangs. But Ragnthor is not afraid, at least not as he was when he was a young and superstitious man. He has learned than anything made of material flesh can be killed by material weapons, no matter what its form may be, and feel s savage joy as his blade sinks deep into its birdlike leg. Yet the wound is far from mortal, and the great claws rake his chest, tearing through the steel plate like it was cloth.

Even as he recoils from the attack he braces himself for another. And then suddenly he is inside those great arms, driving his sword deep into its belly. He feels powerful arms lock around him, and talons ripping through plate, searching for his vital organs. He is lapped and dazzled by blue fire that is cold as ice and seems to freeze his bones and flowing blood til only the pain from his wounds keep him aware, and alive. With a surge of strength he pulls away from the thing, leaving chunks of armor in its grasping claws. And, as the thing attacks him on unsteady feet while still being able to kill, Ragnthor's sword swings, leaving its head hanging by only a thread of flesh. It staggers and falls, flame turning red from its falling blood.

Shaking the blood and sweat from his eyes he wheels, to run through the woods like a deer, blood from his wounds still dropping to the ground. Spurred on by the smell of the burning demon and a distant howling.

* * *

There has been fierce fighting on the banks of Thunder River and before the walls of Velitrium. And now a strange quiet follows the storm, in the taverns along the river "…aye the Argonians have fallen back across Black River. Something broke their nerve, though only the devil who made them knows what."

Ragnthor nods. "They tell me you're the only survivor of Fort Tuscelan?"

"Aye, aye. I even saw the great Valannus go down, the last killed and the bravest. It was when Zogar-Sag died that I had my chance to break free."

"Zogar-Sag, dead? How?"

The man drink from his glass. "Can't say. I saw him die in a way that took the heart out of the Argonians. Strange it was, he took know wounds and was dancing toward me with his red axe when suddenly he screamed and fell into the fire. There were red marks on his leg and belly and his head was nearly cut from his body. What do you make of that?"

Ragnthor drank from his own glass. "He lived by magic, and somehow he died by magic. Still Conajoharra is lost the Cyrodiil and Thunder River will be her new border. Tonight I drink to Balthus, without who many more would have died." He pours the rest of the wine on the dirt floor. "Ten Argonians heads will pay for the life of Balthus." He smashes the glass on the table "and seven heads for the dog, who was a better fighter than many a man." He doesn't notice the woodsman's gaze as he drinks from the bottle, lost in a now dark mood.

Author's Note: So, this is the start of a series where I'm going to do stories of Ragnthor that happened in his years of wandering. I don't know how many I will do or will feel motivated to do, because even though I have a large store of stories to draw from I may let this series just slow and stop. They aren't going to be in any particular order, just the ones I feel like writing when I feel like writing them. What I'm thinking of doing next is the first of a definite trilogy of tales centering around his time as a desert raider, or maybe a thief tale. I don't really know yet. But any way, I hope you enjoyed this and your staying safe with this stupid Covid-19 nonsense. Since I am under lock down for 21, go Idaho!, I'm hoping to get a new Dragonborn Comes Home chapter out in that time but who knows.


	2. Shadows of the Moon

All is silent in the reed thick marsh. Then, suddenly, there is the slap of bare feet running. Followed closely by the steady trod of leather boots. A difference of sounds as vast as the despairing panic of the first set and the clear stride of conquest from the second. A conquest that is hastened as the reeds themselves seem to reach on and pull her to the ground.

She turns to face him. "Stand Back!" A strong voice, with only a slight quiver of fear. "Do not Touch me, Shah Amurath, or I shall drown myself!"

A deep, booming voice laughs back. "No, Olivia, you shall not drown. The water here is far too shallow and I shall catch you before you reach the deeps." He takes his cloak off. "By the gods you've led me on a merry chase. My men are all far behind us. But even if your horse hadn't fallen no beast west of Cyrodiil can distance mine for long. Now stop this foolishness and let us return to Akif."

She continues to drag her mostly naked body through the reeds, striving to find a place she can submerge her head. "Please, Let Me Go! How much longer must you heap to such torment…such degradation…"

Laughing at her tears he roars "Until I Tire Of It! Enough words, back to Akif with you, where they are still celebrating me as a hero for crushing those miserable Kozaks! And you do the same, before the night is through."

"No!" she shouts as he reaches for her. "No I Say!" she screams as she scratches as his eyes, "I have sworn to kill myself before I let you take me again, And I'll Keep That Vow!"

He laughs as he falls on her, pushing her body deeper into the muck. "By Akatosh that hurt, the blood still stings my eyes. You'll die here, by the Eight, but after I have you again not before. And then I'll drag your naked body through the streets…"

"YOU REDGUARD DOG!"

For a moment neither can be sure if what they see is a savage, a madman, or a blood and slime encrusted ghost. Not until it speaks, in a heavy northman accent.

"Shah Amurath! I'd Dared Not Hope, Not Even Breathe! Surely It Is The Devils Of Vengance That Have Given You To Me!"

"You're a Kozak! I didn't think a soul survived the massacre!"

The man stalks forward, sun dully lighting his torn and dirty mail and sword."Aye, they're all dead…All But Me Damn You! Oh, Gods of Hell, How I've yearned for this moment! As I crawled on my belly through brambles, hid under rocks, and felt the ants tear at my flesh!"

The Shah stands and draws his sword like lightening. "Stand Back!"

The giant of a Nord laughs savagely "The mighty Shah, who fed my comrades to the vultures and tore them between wild horses. Blind, maimed, and mutilated them. YOU DOG! YOU FILTH EATING DOG!" Yet, even in the fury of his lunge, the reeds grab and throw him to the ground.

Surely he is doomed, for isn't he a starved and bloodmad savage against the armored Lord of Akif! Yet the Shah's blade cleaves empty air as the Nord moves quick as a panther. Then, with a sudden surge to his feet, the wildman's sword streaks past the Shah's curved blade to land horrifically on his shoulder. Above the crunch of rending mail is the snap of bone.

The Redguard reels back, sword dropping from nerveless fingers. "Q-Quarter!"

"Quarter you say? Aye, Quarter As You GAVE US!" The Nord gives a wild swing that takes Amurath just below the ribs. The grime dulled blade doesn't cut deep, even backed by the fearsome muscles of the man. Instead it hits like a warhammer, with a wet crunch, throwing the Shah into the reeds "IS THAT QUARTER ENOUGH FOR YOU!"

And now Olivia covers her eyes. For this is no longer a battle but slaughter. Frantic, bloody, fueled by fury and hate. Though she knows her master deserves no better, still she cannot look. Though her ears can still hear the sword rise and fall with the sound of a butcher's cleaver and the gurgling cries slowly fade to nothing. When she opens her eyes she sees the man turn from a bloody pile that no longer resembles a human.

He doesn't speak to her, nor does he even acknowledge her. He simply walks through the reeds at the water's edge and reveals a boat hidden there. It is then she realizes what he is doing and it is this thought alone that spurs her to motion.

"Wait, Wait! Oh Please take me with you!"

He wheels and stares at her. There is a difference in his bearing now. His bloodshot eyes are sane, as if the blood shed had quenched the fury. "Who are you girl?"

"I'm Olivia. I was…his captive. I ran and he followed me here."

He waves her off. "Well you're free of him now. Go on your way."

"But…his men will not be far away! And if they find me near his body…"

The big man sighs and steadies the gently rocking boat. "Come on then."

Olivia does, even as she herself fears the man. Her flesh crawls at the sight on the blood and muck smeared over the torn chain mail, revealing wounds red and angry. But she fears the terror of an Alik'r torture chamber more. As he works his way through the stalks, finally jumping into the craft when it is chest deep, she watches him with immense fascination. There is a hardness about him which marks him as a Nord, features hard and cutting yet not evil or degenerate. She would know. When they finally reach open water he pulls the oars with powerful, even strokes.

"Who are you outlander? The Shah called you a Kozak. Did you run with those outlaws?"

"I am Ragnthor, of Whiterun. And I was with the Kozaki, as these Redguard dogs called us. And what of you, girl. How did you come to call the Shah master?"

She lowers her eyes and watches the oars rattle in their locks. "I was sold to him…"

Ragnthor gives a snarl. "And they call my race uncivilized. We at least do not sell our children."

She meets his gaze, fill with anger and shame. "Well I was sold. My father is King Amalrus, king of Daggerfall. He sold me to a desert chieftain because I refused to marry the prince of Sentinel. In truth he did not mistreat me in any way, though for his own reasons. He wished to buy the goodwill of Shah Amurath and I was one of the gifts brought to him, months ago. And from the fire in his eyes I knew I would go untouched no longer." She lowers her face into her hands, fighting the tears. "I…I should be lost to the shame, yet each memory strikes like a whip. I lived in the palace until yesterday when he returns from destroying the Kozaks. In the drunken revelment I found my chance to escape so I stole a horse. I thought I had made it but around midday he caught up to me. Then…You…came…" she break off in shudders.

His shoulders roll like oiled gears as he drags them farther from shore with each stroke. "I was lying hidden in the reeds. For I was one of the Kozaki, or free companions as well called ourselves. There were 5,000 of us, from every civilized and half civilized race you can think of. We plundered everything we came across. Then, a week ago, Amurath cornered us on the banks of the Ilbar…With 15,000 Men!"

Olivia feels the boat surge forward under his fury built strength. "Akatosh, the skies were thick with vultures that day. After our line broke, after a day of fighting, some tried to break through to the north, some to the west. I doubt a soul made it, the plains were thick with horsemen. I managed, somehow, to break through to the east and make the marshes that bordered the bay. It was only 2 days ago that they stopped searching for survivors like me. I've lived on water rats I could catch and eat raw for lack of a fire. Found the boat this morning and I hadn't planned to set out until nightfall. But now his warriors wouldn't be far away."

"What now, Lilac bay is a Redguard pond."

"Some don't think so, notably the slaves that revolt and steal ships, finding easy pickings here. If we meet some of them, well…" he shrugs his massive shoulders and heaves on the oars.

The sun sinks like a copper ball into a sea of fire as Olivia lays her head on the bow of the gently rocking boat, in a state dreamlike. It seems to her that the boat is floating in the sky, with stars above and below. And Ragnthor may well be a ghostly oarsman, slowly rowing her across the dark sea of death. But her fear is dulled and soothed by the constant motion and she falls into a deep sleep.

Dawn is breaking on her eyes as she wakes with a ravenous hunger. "Ragnthor…you've been rowing all night." She rubs the sleep from her eyes. "But…I felt you stop."

With a start she realizes that he is staring past her and she turns to follow his gaze. "One of the islands that dot the bay. They are supposed to be uninhabited. Least ways no one visits often. They generally hug the shores and we've come a long way out." With that he rows them to the shore.

As Ragnthor ties the boat to a tree Olivia stares into the forest beyond the beach. "It's…so quiet. Yet I find myself listening for…something."

"You're on edge girl" suddenly a parrot squawks and darts low over her head to land before Ragnthor. "Hah, here's the grandfather of all parrots. He could be 1,000 years old from the size of him. Look at the evil wisdom in his eyes. What mysteries do you guard, wise devil?"

As if in answer he takes flight, shrieking "Yagkoolan Yok Tha, Xuthalla"

Ragnthor curses as Olivia asks "Wh-what did it say?"

"Hells if I know. Human words but what language I can't say."

"Nor I, but it must have learned them from someone or…" She shudders

"Well we can't stand around wondering about the cries of parrots. Kyne I'm hungry enough to eat a bull. Let's find some food." He runs his hand through his hair and grimaces. "After I cleaned this filth and blood off. Hiding in marshes is foul work." He pulls his armor off and dives into the sea.

When Ragnthor emerges is shoulder length, dark red hair is no longer matted, his eyes no longer bloodshot, wounds no longer angry red. As he strides toward her braiding a strand of hair that fall along his face, wearing only his small clothes, she sees that his body is covered in scars. Some big and ropy, others small faint, all forming a crisscross pattern. Still she sees the panther like suppleness that allowed him the beat the Shah, and traces of that savage face.

"Even this is better than nothing", he smiles as he pulls on the ragged mail shirt and leather pants and boot. "Now let's look for some fruit. But don't stray from my side, there may be things here deadlier than a parrot." Olivia needs no urging.

A short while later he stops before a tree bearing so much fruit its branches bent toward the ground. "Shor, I've never seen this kind of fruit before. Still, it's not a poisonous kind, lest that I know of." He grabs one and takes a bite, smiling. "And it's better than the rats I've had the last few days." Olivia is too busy eating to reply.

After a while of eating in silence, Ragnthor's hunger has finally been put at bay. He turns and looks, really looks, at the girl, seeing her truly for the first time. And, she in turn looks at him. Only to find that beneath his steely, appraising gaze, she still know how to blush.

Suddenly, without a sound, he leaps at her. "Ragnthor, What…" is all she gets out before that great body hits and throws her to the ground as a massive stone flies through the air where she was. "Sweet Mother Mara!"

Ragnthor wheels, drawing his broadsword. "If I'd not looked up when I did. It came from…" his eyes focus on one spot "there. That thicket." He darts toward it. "Stay here and keep your head down."

For long moments there is no sound. On the brink of fleeing in fear Olivia stares at the wall of trees. Suddenly he comes out. "Nothing. Though there was something."

"What was it?"

He shrugs. "Damned if I know. But take a look at this stone. Almost as green as Jade, the thing has been cut into a block. A strange thing for an uninhabited island."

"Do…Do you think…"

Ragnthor sheathes his sword. "Stand back, I want to try something." He reaches down and grabs the stone and in the rends in his mail she can see his great muscles dance and strain as he picks it up and holds it over his head and throws it 12 ft, maybe a little more. He dusts his hands. "No man living could throw that stone across the glade."

"A catapult perhaps?"

"No, it came from across the clearing like a man tossing a pebble. Well we won't learn anything standing here, let's go in."

Utter stillness rests over the dense woods and even the Nords keen eye can't see anything in the leaf litter. Suddenly he draws his sword. "Hold."

"What is it Ragnthor? Did you see something?"

"Death. Run." He shoves her "Keep going, quickly, and don't look back."He pauses a moment and then follows. "Pray to every god you know in thanks if death doesn't follow us. Damn it, I should have guessed."

"Ragnthor, Look! In the name of the Mother Look!"

"Divines…" is all he says as he sees the massive, green stoned structure.

* * *

As they walk through the clearing they pass bits of carved stones that tell of other building, long since crumbled. It's all the more strange because there are no legends of a cathedral of the islands of Lilac Bay, much less a town. It stands, covered in moss and creeping vines, walls leaning so that it may fall over at the slightest breath. As they walk through the entry portal the large hinges tell of great doors long rotted away. Ragnthor enters slowly, like a lion who senses a trap while Olivia gazes in amazement. Shafts of light stream from the ceiling left from holes caused from age, the great stones litter the ground. As the light pierces the darkness it weaves a strange tapestry.

Suddenly she darts back. "Ragnthor, Look!"

"Aye lass, I see them."

In alcoves along each side of the great hall there are statues. Standing taller than Ragnthor, they are of a race Ragnthor had never seen. Dark, so dark they seemed to absorb the light that hit them, leaving them cool to the touch.

"Nothing to fear from them. They are only statues."

"But they are so life-like, and evil…"

"They look real enough, and whoever carved them was a master of his craft. Each face, each pose is different. They all seem to be waiting for something thought." He draws his sword.

"What are you doing?"

"I just want to try something, " he hits the statue with the hilt and it rings back at him, "iron, from the sound of it. But what mold were they cast from." He grabs a hand. "I can't break off…even the smallest finger.

"What race are they modeled from?" he says to himself was he walks and looks at all of them in turn. "They are dark, not from the iron but…painted. Darker than the darkest man I have seen in the desert tribes."

Olivia grabs his arm. "Let's go back to the sunlight! Please Ragnthor."

"Alright, we're going."

As they left the dusty hall for the glade bathed in summer sun Olivia was surprised at how much time had passed. "Let's go back to the boat and leave, there something evil here. Besides we don't know when we will be attacked by what threw the rock."

"I think we'll be safe enough, as long as we stay away from the trees." He pointed down a mostly open path. "That way."

They walk for a while, ground sloping more and more until they were climbing an almost cliff. The north born Nord went up the cliff as easy as a cat, even with helping the lowland born girl, who found she was no longer repulsed by his touch. A last they made the top, the highest point on the island, the rest splayed in an oval behind them.

"The sea is still Ragnthor, why aren't we leaving."

He points a few degrees off from where she is staring longingly. "There's your answer girl."

"Ohh, that's a sail! I thought it was a cloud or a speck. Who is it?"

"Who can tell at this distance. But we'll know soon enough."

"It's men from Sentinel, I'm sure of it. Sent to find us for killing Amurath. They'll anchor here and search the island for us."

"I doubt it. They come from the west, from the mouth of the bay, so they can't be searching for us. Still we can't put out until they are gone so we'll spend the night on the island."

"Then let us sleep here on the crags!"

"Too many trees. We'll sleep in the ruins."

She buries he face in his chest. "N-no! Not there! I…"

He holds her. "Easy lass. Nothing there will harm you. Whatever threw that stone didn't follow us out of the woods and there is no sign of anything making a nest in the ruin." He picks her and picks his way down the side of the hill. "Besides you're soft-skinned, used to shelter. I can sleep naked in the snow but you'll catch ill in the dew."

By the time they reach the ruin the sun had sunk below the trees. Olivia lays on a bed of leaves Ragnthor had made for her, too nervous to sleep. Ragnthor smiles down at her. "Don't worry, my sleep is light as a wolf. Nothing will enter without me knowing." She nods and closes her eyes.

In time, she drifts off to sleep, only to ride a river of shattered shards of dreams. She is thrown from one to another, all with the same theme, evil. Suddenly the shards form a whole in in her mind she shudders from the horror. For she is in the great hall, but not a crumbled ruin but whole and filled with hordes of red and green parrots that fly over the dancing mass of black skinned and hawkfaced people.

Laughing and jeering they press about a golden haired, white skinned young man. His beauty is not completely human but like a dream of a god, chiseled from marble. But here that lithe, naked form strains against the iron chains that bind him to the pillar with a strength that would give Ragnthor pause. He strains his neck up and starts to utter a name from foam flecked lips. Suddenly a form darts forward to bury a dagger in the youth's chest and his golden head fall to his chest.

Suddenly there is a roll of thunder seemingly in response to the cry. And with a crack of lightening a form is towering above them. The likeness to the boy in undeniable, but the mix of humanity is missing from his face, awful and immobile in his beauty. The horde shrinks back, their eyes seeming like fire in the godly light.

Now from the god's lips echo's a terrible invocation, an irresistible command. "YAGKOOLAN YOK THA XUTHALLA!"

At the blast of that awesome shout the throng falls back until they stand on pedestals set in even rows along the hall. Fall back…and freeze where they stand. Over their limbs creeps a strange rigidity, a curious stillness. Then the god touches the child and the chains fall from him. Taking the body in his arm he gazes over the hall then points to the sky, and the tense, unmoving things that were once men understood…

"NNNNOOOOOOOO!" she comes awake screaming. "The Statues! Oh, Holy Mara! THE STATUES ARE COMING TO LIFE!"

Like an animal waking Ragnthor surges to his feet, sword drawn but even he is too slow and only catches a glimpse of Olivia as she darts through a crack in the wall to run madly screaming through the vines beyond until a steel grasp brings her up short.

"No! NO! Let Go Of Me!"

Another arm reaches out and draws her close. "Gods girl, it's only me. Did you have a nightmare or see a snake…"

"They Didn't Follow Us Did They?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you see them start to move, a slow twitching at first, then a jerking of arms…"

"I may have slept deeper than normal but nothing could have entered the hall…"

"No! Nothing entered! They were already there and WE LAY DOWN TO SLEEP AMONG THEM!"

He shakes his great head. "I saw only you, woke at your cry and followed you in case some harm came to you. I thought you'd had a nightmare."

"I…did. But the dream lived.." She tells him of her dream.

And Ragnthor listens with none of the doubts of a civilized man. These things are as real to him as the air he breathes but cannot see. "Still, I've half a mind to go back."

He turns and she grabs his arm. "NO! Even if the moon wakes them, magic my hold them in the hall. If you go back…"

"There is truth in what you say." He starts walking through the trees and Olivia hugs his side. "I told someone once that I'd not walk on the shadow of a god. And that ship should have passed now, so we'll be on our way."

A short while later they reach the spot where he tied the boat. "Damn. Looks like we won't we leaving tonight." The boat lays smacks to broken bits of boards, still tied to the tree. "Well, tomorrow I'll make a raft. Do you hear that?"

She trains he ears. "No…"

"That's the point, just a moment ago the forest was full of night sounds…" and yet, somehow, above the leaves faintly stir.

The next moment Ragnthor throws Olivia over his should and tears off through the forest, sword gleaming starkly before him in the patches of moon light. Like a deer taken flight he runs, swift and silent, bounding over fallen logs without losing speed. Yet, behind them, the rushing of leaves grows every closer. Suddenly they burst into the open, moonlight falling freely on their faces and they are speeding up the rocky crags. And there, far free from the trees and their shadows, Ragnthor stops.

"We should be safe here until morning." He sits, sword laying on his knees.

"It wasn't the statues was it?"

"No. Now go to sleep, I'll keep watch." And somehow, even though she dares not close her eyes, Olivia falls asleep.

In the cold light of dawn her fears seems like the rambling of an overactive imagination, until she sees Ragnthor peering over the cliff.

"Get down girl." He hisses at her. "The ship bore pirates."

Slowly the coarse voices reach them. A motley crew, Ragnthor hears accents from every race he has seen, and a few that he hadn't. He counts more than 70 of the rogues and every one bears the marks of the torture chamber as well as combat.

"That's an Aldmeri galley, by its rigging. They must have captured her."

"Wh-what'll we do?"

"Keep out of sight here, among the rocks. And don't show yourself unless I call you."

"What are you doing?"

He smiles. "Why I'm going down there. If my plan succeeds we'll both sail way with them. If not, well, keep out of sight as I said. The devils of this island are less cruel than these sea wolves."

Mere moments later shouts of shock float up to her. "Mara's tits! A Fucking Giant! Who in what heathen hell are you!?"

"I was recently one of the Free Companions. Til the army of Shah Amurath slaughter us like so many swine. As for my name, Ragnthor of Whiterun. I mean to try my luck with your Red Brotherhood. Who is your chief?"

"I am, by Arkay!" A massive form pushes its way through the crowd towards him. A man at least as tall as Ragnthor and maybe 100lbs heavier. "I, Tysik of Windhelm. Aye, the same Tysik you left to rot in jail in Bravil more than a year ago. I got free, no thanks to you, and now I'll hang you by your feet and flay the skin from you!"

Ragnthor stalks forward, knowing the only way to live was to challenge. "Why should I have freed you? You Tried To Kill Me!"

Tysik gets right in his face. "And now I'll finish the job. At Him Lads!"

"Aye, send in your dogs, fat belly."

"You don't think I can flay you hide on my own?"

"I'd like to see you try, coward."

"COWARD? By Talos I'll Cut Your Heart And Feed It To The Sharks!"

There is no formal declaration of combat, just the hiss of Tysik's scimitar cutting the air near Ragnthor's head. Around them rises a hiss as the pirates suck air to let loose blood thirsty yells. Tysik is faster than Ragnthor thought and he hisses with effort as he wildly swings and parries. As for Tysik, he ceases his oaths to save breath, arms groaning under the strength of Ragnthor's blows, sword feeling like it is parrying a blacksmiths hammer. Ragnthor fights in a fury filled silence, eyes slits of fire.

The blades flash like lightening, with speed fast enough to make the grass around them sway. And Tysik gives way, bit by bloody bit, under Ragnthor's mighty blows, panting heavily. So far it is only skill that has saved from the savage onslaught. But skill fades quickly, along with untempered strength. Suddenly the clang of steel hits a different note, followed by a sliding rasp. Suddenly Ragnthor sword bursts through Tysik's back, quivering from the force behind it. Just as quickly he withdraws it and the pirate captain falls on his face, into a widening pool of blood.

Ragnthor wheels, still caught in the fighting spirit. "Well dogs, you captain is dead! What says the Law of the Red Brotherhood? Am I you're captain or do I take you all on? One or together, it doesn't matter."

A ratfaced man gives Ragnthor his answer when, standing behind his fellows, he hurls a sling stone, dropping the Nord like a bull hit with an axe.

"So the Nord wishes to join our band now, eh?" He stands over Ragnthor with a drawn dagger. "Let him instead join Tysik, in the warm embrace of death!"

The dagger is halted in its downward flight by a hand. "Aractus, you dog, would you break the law of the brotherhood?"

"Leave off Ivanos, no law is broken!"

Ivanos, a tall, hawkish man, laughs. "No law you say? Did not this man kill Tysik? That makes him our new captain."

Aractus shoves him. "That law is for men of our band! He was an outsider…"

Voices rise in the crowd behind them "But he wished to join us, Ivanos is right!"

"Fuck off, Aractus is!"

"No, Ivanos I says, Let Ivanos decide."

"Why in the hells are you fighting over a dead man?"

The whole band laughs at Aractus and he falls back while Ivanos says "How hard do you think your sling arm is? Your blow merely stunned him. Watch that great chest breathe. Now, bind him and bring him with us, we'll vote on his fate later." He has his sword out so no one argues as they do his bidding. They leave the body of Tysik, for the flies and lizards must have their due.

* * *

Back on the cliff Olivia can only stare as the drunken, swearing mob haul he protector away like a sack of wheat. Even if she dared to scream, she couldn't. For she has been left numb and speechless by her fate. Slwoly she manages to move and changes her vantage point, seeing the pirates reach the ruins which they had dimly seen from the ship, making landfall to find hidden treasure.

After some time a score more make their way from the ship, carrying casks of beer and wine and sacks of food, all while swearing loudly over their burdens. A few of them look over their shoulders to the forest. Do they too hear the rustle of leaves?

Suddenly she realizes how much she has come to depend on Ragnthor. She, who was the daughter of a king, yet had never been shown adult kindness by her own people. Only a north born vagabond, a raider. Then, abruptly, the horrors of her choices come to her. To reveal herself to the sea wolves and pray for mercy, or remain alone on a devil haunted island. The world spins and she falls.

The sun is hanging low in the sky when she comes to. Remembering at once all her fears she creeps to the edge of the plateau. Below, as most of the pirates cluster around a fire build in front of the ruins, another group emerges. And Ragnthor is with them, bound tightly.

"He is alive, at least!" she whispers. She suddenly knows what to do once night falls.

She cannot hear the heated words, the fighting between the factions of Aractus and Ivanos. But from the tones that reach her ears she knows what they are say. There is much yelling about blood oaths, waving of arms and the brandishing of weapons. But, at last, a few of them drag the Nord into the hall and they all take up the most serious work of drinking.

That will make it all the easier for her, she hopes. Soon, she will sneak into the ruins and free Ragnthor…or be taken in the attempt. But such a plan will have a great chance of success if she isn't starving. As the pain grows in her stomach she remembers she hasn't eaten since yesterday. And so, steeling herself, she ventures into the forest.

Once there she begins to pick the sparsely growing fruit from the trees and fill herself. Yet she cannot shake the feeling she is being watched. She sees nothing yet distinctly feels being watched. Suddenly she hears a rustling from the forest. With a shudder she drops the fruit and runs back to the cliffs, where the rustling stops. There she sits, watching the day slowly fade to dark.

She stands, looking over the clearing. "It's time." But on an impulse she looks over the northern side of the crags and as she strains in the starlight fear claws at her. Something below her moves.

It is as if a black shadow detaches itself from the cliff to slowly climb toward her. Massive but shapeless in the semidarkness. With a scream trying to tear itself from her throat she turns and runs down the far side of the crags. The rocks tear at her as she slips and slides, footing unstable. Finally her feet touch grass and she is off, running wild toward the fire burning in the distance. She hears rocks sliding down the slope after her and doubles her speed. She dares not think of the thing that follows her.

So blind is her terror that she would have run straight into the fire had her feet not been caught by a vine, throwing her to the ground. Her mind clears as she hits the ground, giving her the strength to fight against her panic till, crawling and her stomach, she draws as close as she dare to the fire.

She lies there watching as the last few remaining on their feet slump to the ground in sleep. As she starts across the clearing she notices that the moons are rising. With a smothered gasp she remembers last night's dreams as she picks her way among the bodies. As she enters the great hall she lets out a small sigh of relief as she sees the light has not made it this far. Ragnthor smiles slightly, for as quiet as her coming was he nonetheless heard it.

It takes all she has in her not to sob at the sight of him bound, yet alive. As she draws closer she grabs a dagger from a drunk man, even as the first beams of light stream into the hall toward those who long for it. Franticly she works at Ragnthor's bounds. They are thick and heavy, tied with all the skill of a sailor. All the while, from the corner of her eye, she watches the beam of light creep toward the first of the statues.

Suddenly, Ragnthor is free. He flexes his arm, bearing the pain of recirculation with the inborn stoicism of a Nord. Quick as a flash he grabs his sword from where it lays on a nearby pile, even as the moon light lands on a sailors and he moans. No words pass between the man and woman as he grabs her in his arms and runs out of the hall. But the girl's arms hug tightly the man's broad shoulders and she nestles her head on his great breast.

Yet, as the near the cliff she moves. "What's wrong?"

"Something climbed the cliffs after me. I heard it scrambling behind me."

He shrugs. "We'll have to chance it. Afraid?"

"Not with you here."

"You weren't afraid when you came to free me either. You were…" suddenly he freezes, a statue formed from steel. "Don't. Say. Anything. Girl." He throws her behind him.

"Ragnthor! What…OH SWEET HOLY MARA!"

Out of the shadows of the cliff comes a monstrous, shambling horror, grotesque in the moonlight. Stands chest and shoulders above Ragnthor, the grey shape has fangs jutting out of its jaws like an orc, yet a foot longer. It's arms swing below its knees, jaws slavering yet no sound come from its mouth.

 _This is it_ thinks Olivia _For what man can withstand this beast_

Then the grey-furred demon charges, flashing its stark white tusks. Olivia cannot follow Ragnthor's next move. She only knows he avoided the beast grasp long enough for his sword to lop of one of the things arms. Yet its other hand buries itself in Ragnthor's hair and only his iron muscles save him from a broken neck.

Then, as she stares on in wide-eyed horror, she senses an unholy kinship between these creatures of the wild. Savagely the massive ape maintains his grip on Ragnthor's hair and drags him toward its jaws. Meanwhile the Nord's free hand and leg have brace again the great beast chest, straining to keep the great beast jaws away. Yet slowly, silently, the great ape draws the man's face closer even as Ragnthor's sword buries itself in the great chest as fast as he can withdraw the blade.

Even in the thick of battle Olivia can't help but think the sword is nothing but a butcher-knife in those great hands. Still, the beast takes the punishment in horrifying silence, apparently unweakened from the Nord's blows. Slowly, ever slowly, the Nord's head is pulled closer to the horrible jaws until he can stare into the bloodshot eyes of the ape, even as he heaves at his sword, driven deep into the beast. Suddenly the great, wet jaws snap shut less than an inch from Ragnthor's face and the next instant he is hurled across the clearing by the monster's dying convulsions. Olivia, half faint, sees the dark hilt jut from the silver breast as the beast falls.

"TALOS! Another Instant…And He'd…Have Bitten…My Head Off. BLAST HIM! He's Torn…A Handful of my hair…out by the roots."

"What was is Ragnthor?"

"A gray man-ape. Mute and man-eating. They're from Valenwood. Must have been captured for a lord or king and then was shipwrecked."

She wraps her arms around him. "Then that was the thing that threw the stone?"

"Aye. I began to think this was what it was when we stood in the thicket and the bough began to bend over our heads." He bend to draw his sword from the creature. "Good thing for us he didn't stay in the deepest forest, as his kind do. I'd have had no chance at him among the trees."

"Do you think," she looks around, "That there may be others?"

"No, else the pirates would have been attacked as they went through the tree. Thank the gods his lust for you was so great he dared leave the shelter of the trees, otherwise…." Suddenly a chorus of screams cut through the night air. "Shit…"

"It's coming from the ruins."

Ragnthor gives a roguish smile. "Let's head to ship, quickly."

In the grey light of dawn, 40 men approach the ship, only to be stopped by a booming voice. "Stand Back, Come No Nearer!"

"Look lads! Aboard the ship!"

"Aye, it's me and no other you swab. What do you want?"

"Let us come aboard lad."

"Let us leave this devils isle."

Ragnthor smiles down at them. "The first to come over the side…is the first to have his skull spilt."

"Please let us come aboard good Ragnthor."

"Aye! We've been beaten, clawed, mauled, forced to run wild through the woods. Not one of us would raise a sword against you."

"Where's that bastard Aractus?"

"Dead, with the others."

"We are your comrades lad! Let us come aboard and we'll all be lusty rogues together. It's the kings and lord we hate, not each other."

Ragnthor chuckles. "If we're comrades then the laws of the Brotherhood apply to me. Since I killed your captain that make me chief. What say you Ivanos?"

The bearded man nods. "Aye, by the gods. Ragnthor is our lawful Captain."

"Aye, Aye!" raise 39 voices behind him.

"Then swear it by the hilt." 40 sword hilts raise toward him, and 40 voices raise in the corsairs oath of allegiance. "Then come aboard me hearties and let's commit this island to memory." With cheers the crew spills over the decks to make ready to sail.

As Ragnthor stands at the helm Olivia comes up to him. "What of me sir?"

He turns the wheel, testing the strength of the ropes. "What of you?"

"I'd…I'd like to go with you. You're an outcast, and I'm an outcast. We are both wanderers of no choice of our own. Oh please take me with you!"

He nods. "A change of clothes, and a few weeks of hard work, and we'll catch a ship for you. Make you a queen, of seas red and blue. For we sail for blood and slaughter and this keel will stain the sea red where ever she sails. Cast Off Lad, And Let's Find A Ship Of Daggerfall To Sate Our Hunger On!"

Author's Note: This is not what I had planned to do next. I have a little more than half way through the next Dragonborn Comes Home chapter...when i had to reset my computer and the only restore point i could be sure was good was before i had written a thing. And I couldn't remember what I had written and was pissed off it was gone. and I'll most likely do another one of these before I have calmed down enough to try again. So I will ask you what kind of story you would like to hear next: a desert bandit story or one from right after Ragnthor left Skyrim in his time among the Orcs? As always, thank you for reading and I hopes you enjoyed it.


	3. Legions of the Dead

On the borders of High Rock, Hammerfell and Skyrim lies Orsinium, Kingdom of the Orsimer. A loose collection of clans bound only by shared blood, the King is a mostly symbolic position won only by beating other claimants in combat, and the authority is limited to the amount of clans he can win to his cause. The clans however, ranging in size from a single family to several strongholds controlled by a powerful warchief, follow a rigid social system in which the chief rules with absolute authority inso far as to be the only one to take wives.

It is here, on the border of Orsinium and High Rock, that a stag walks out of the dense forest to drink from the mountain stream.

A large stag, he sinks deep into the fresh snow to stand on the bank of the stream, hooves sinking deep in the mud of the eddy, showing that winter has barely started in these climes. Suddenly he head shots up, nose steaming and muzzle dripping water, the only movement is ears twitching. But whatever faint sound it heard is not repeated and he lowers his head again to the stream.

Suddenly a javelin slams into its shoulder with enough force to throw it into the stream. He surges up and, 3 staggering bounds later, crumples on the far side. He lays there a moment, twitching and gasping, before his eyes glaze over and he grows still. Blood mixed with froth still oozes out of its mouth, staining the snow a brilliant red.

"A good toss Nash." A voice rises from the woods.

"Of course, boy," replies a second as it steps out of the tree, revealing itself to be an Orc, large and imposing, "why else do you think I'm a chief. I'll clean the stag, you dig a hole for the offal."

"Whatever you say Nash" replies the second voice. A Nord, young and lithe yet broader in shoulder and deeper in chest than the older Orc, standing at least a head above him.

Ragnthor, still fresh from being driven from his father's farm, doesn't like the word boy. But, among a people more savage than his own, the name of man is earned through hard work and scars in battle and he has few of both. Nash is skilled in both, however. He peels the skin and cuts the most filling portions from the stag with the skill of a master, washing them clean in the stream.

As soon as the offal is buried and tracks hidden, they are off, meat swinging in a bag of its own skin suspended on the pole between them, climbing the slope and reentering the trees.

So well concealed is the orcish camp that the pair hear the voices around the fire before they see it. Yet the watchmen have seen them coming.

"Hail Nash! Does my one good eye spot food for the fire?"

He laughs. "A chieftain's job is to provide Gorm. Any word from Nahaz?"

"No…" Nash exchanges looks with Ragnthor as they both remember the events of two nights before.

* * *

"Nahaz, you are the greatest hunter. Take 30 of our number and scout the necromantic stronghold we march toward."

The lithe man nods. "As you say Chief."

Ragnthor moves on his rock. "Nash…is it wise to divide our force when we are so close to our enemy? It seems to me that we had better…"

The big Orc turns toward him. "What is this I hear? Is the Nord who joined our stronghold a scant few months ago challenging my leadership!"

"I was only…"

"Hold your tongue boy! NASH HAS SPOKEN!"

* * *

Still, the chieftain seems to have realized he was harsh, for only hours later he had taken the young Ragnthor hunting with him, his crude way of making amends. And now, two day later, it seems that Ragnthor's instincts had been correct.

Though, even young as he is, he doesn't flaunt the fact. "What do we do Nash?"

"They should have been back long ago. We March!"

And, when night descends, they do. Toward the castle of the necromancers, with Nash walking impatiently at the columns head. For was it not his only daughter Borka, betrothed to the king, who was taken by the thralls wearing the emblem of Haloga Castle.

All that night the Orcish warband drifts in single file down out of the snow sprinkled hill like a pack of wolves, even as a cold mist blots out the stars. Quietly, stealthily they go. For, desperate and vengeful as he is, Nash knows that his only hope lies in surprise.

Suddenly "There it is Chief, Haloga."

"I see it Gorm. But I also see the dawn, damn our luck. We must wait for night before we…"

"BY THE ASHLANDS!"

"Look Nash, there, hanging from the walkway above the walls."

Ragnthor has to stop himself from turning away. "By the gods. Can such people even exist?"

Nash nods "The hearts of men and mer are darker than any demons boy. This whole time I had feared the witchmen and their dark arts, but not this."

For there, high above and clearly visible in the dawn sky, is Nahaz and his party, dancing their death-throes at the end of 30 ropes. Each one is tied by their wrists, naked, to a pole along the top of the wall. Nash curses and dugs his nail into his palms and yet, while he feels dirty to the depths of his soul, he cannot look away.

The witchmen of the fort must known, through their arts, that the band is watching just out of sight among the trees and order their men to proceed in their play. The tales of them are proven true by the glistening bodies hanging over the red spattered parapet. The warband is sick as devils tear into their comrades with long hooks and flaying knifes. They are brave men and women, stalwart warriors. As such, it takes them all day to die. Overall watches Vammatar, eternally young queen of Haloga, lazy smile on her red lips.

And the Orcs, sick with rage and fury, watch as well…and can do nothing.

"If we attack perhaps we can…" a hand knocks the Orc to the ground as Nash turns.

"No! I am Chieftain. And I cannot throw good lives after spent ones." Ragnthor knows that Nash suffers most of all.

As night falls, the Orcs still hidden in the trees sleep while Nash plans what to do. One soul however, slips out of his blankets to pull on his mail. Such light armor disgusts him but as a new warrior one wears what the chief provides, with heavy armor being earned in battle. Belting on his sword he slips out of the camp.

Perhaps it is because he still chafes at the dressing down Nash gave him days before when he questioned the wisdom of the scouting party. Or maybe it is because, being driven from his home, he is eager to earn the applause of his new companions. Most likely it is a little of both. Whatever his reason, Ragnthor acts as only a Nord can, by climbing the castle wall.

The wall is neither easier nor harder than the young Nord expected. Being as old, at least, as Vammatar it is full of handholds yet the lines of the castle are still true meaning he has to climb straight up. And the wall is tall. Evidently many races do not consider climbing a great skill such as the Nords of hilly Skyrim. And they never had to fight the Snow Elves in their stony towns. Clawing with steel strong fingers he makes his way up the wall, slower than he would like, but steadily.

Finally he reaches the arrow slit he saw from the ground. As he drew close he knew it would be narrow, maybe too narrow from him. But as he hangs there, fingertips glad for the wide stone hold, he knows the ground is too many yards below him to make it back without falling. As he drags himself through the slit he catches fast as he tries to forces his great chest though. Looking around the room he struggles, knowing that if he is found he will be killed like a fox in a trap. Pushing all the air from his lungs he heaves himself through, vision growing black. As he stalks out of the room he thanks the gods he had mail, for in plate he would have never made it through.

After stretching his cramped muscles he pushes through another door and sees a staircase leading down into the darkness. His eyes, however, are that of a saber cat not a Breton so he quickly makes his way to the central keep. Were he sees, for the first time, a necromancer or, as the Orcs call them, a wtichman.

Clad all in black, his hair, face, and eyes are completely colorless like some devil from hell. Still, they have hearts suck as other races as Ragnthor discovers and his runs his sword through the man's chest, killing him without a sound. Dragging him into an empty cell he takes the keys and starts checking the other darkened cells.

"borka! borka gra-magna! where are you?"

"Who are you?" Though the girl breathes heavily with anticipation Ragnthor detects no fear.

"it's ragnthor, the nord. surely you remember me from one of the strongholds your father holds. and by the gods keep your voice down."

"Who are you to command me! I'm glad you've come but alone?"

"it is a long story girl, too long unless you want us both to rot in here." He unlocks the door and pulls her out. "now come! we must move quickly!" There is something in his voice that make the Orsimer maiden follow him, even though he is no older than herself.

They glide through the halls like ghosts. "at any moment they may discover us. if we are to leave by the way I came we will need a distraction."

She nods. "is that a store room?"

A savage light springs in his eyes. "aye, it is."

"what do you want in here…with that barrel of pitch?"

"you've noticed, no doubt, that while the walls are stone, everything else seems to be wood. need i say more to the daughter of one wise enough to be chief?" with that he hurls a lit torch into the soaked room. "Now run like Hell!"

Crackling hungrily, the flames burn through other barrels and before long black smoke is pouring out of the room and the fire is hot enough to crack stone. The fire grows quickly, so fast in fact Ragnthor seems to feel the heat all the way back to the room where he entered.

"Thank the Gods the rope is still here." Tying it fast he forces his way through the slit again, dragging Borka with him.

How long until the Bretons stop the fire he doesn't know. What he does know is that it demands there full attention, leaving him more than enough to finish the decent and run into the trees.

Nash bellows with joy as the 2 of them approach. "But moment ago I was wondering if we should try an attack or march home in disgrace. And now my daughter is here and Haloga is in flames. The honor of the clan has been restored. And we owe it all to you, Nord." Nash slaps his shoulder with enough force to knock most young men down. To Ragnthor, however, it is s sign he has been truly accepted among them.

"Father, do you think they'll come after us?"

"They wouldn't dare. For, though they will save a good part of the castle, many of the devils will have been killed in that fire. Let's Go, no need to conceal our movement. We'll have an easy way back." Ragnthor doubts the wisdom of no moving with stealth, but having been yelled at once he bites his tongue.

 _Besides,_ he thinks, _with a little effort we will be miles from here before night._ He turns to follow as Vammatar watches from the wall.

From time to time an Orc checks for anyone following them and each time they give an all clear. Yet before the day has truly faded to night…

"Look Nash! Someone follows us."

"Eh, I don't see anything."

"He's right chief, men on foot follow us. Little more than a mile behind us."

At first, save Ragnthor and another eagle eyed Orc no can see anything on the hills behind them. Suddenly Nash curses. "Malacath's ashen beard. I'd not have believed it unless I'd seen it myself."

"Should we stand and fight Father?"

"No, it's easier to attack than defend in the nightly fogs. We move on, stopping for nothing." For once even Ragnthor agrees.

Faster they flee, even as the setting sun is swallowed by the mists and a dim moon rises, followed closely by a second. And they press closer together, fearing the thought of being left in the fog, and hold a pace that makes even Ragnthor suck at the air from time to time.

Suddenly "Nash, Behind Us! Pursuers from Haloga!"

"Look at their movements, its odd."

"They seem tireless!"

Nash growls in frustration. "Quick, top the rise. There we will make our stand, and let our weapons drink deep in human blood!"

Like true warriors everywhere, the thought of combat raises their flagging spirits and they tear up the hillock with renewed strength. They make a line, with Nash calling orders behind them.

"Steady, STEADY! Don't waste a single spear. And THROW!" A flash of metal, the thud of impact, and yet still they march forward.

As they surge up the final stretch, the band gets a good look at them. They move like men asleep, or puppets controlled by unseen strings.

"Ragnthor! Do you…do you…"

"Aye Nash, they aren't Bretons. Least not all of them. A vanguard lead by Nahaz, Heart clearly torn from his chest, and the rest of his men behind him. And look, some blackened Bretons, scorched from the fire."

"Keep back Nahaz! I Order You!" The thing the was Nahz pays no heed. "Forgive me, brother…" and the chief swings his might axe, cutting his former comrade in half, only for him to be replace by another grinning corpse.

Up and down the line hoarse cries of surprise ring out as the Orcs find themselves fighting the corpses and the brothers and sisters, family they had seen killed before their very eyes. Though the horde that sweeps among them has other bodies as well.

The smell is sickening, and the terror overwhelms all but the hardiest. The Orcish line crumbles as wave after wave of undead sweeps the warriors down, one by one, to crush them into the ground. They fight bravely yet without hope. For what hope is there against foes from hell itself.

Ragnthor stands in the second rank. When the stout warrior in front of him falls he leaps forward, taking the things head off, only to shudder as it swings back with such speed it almost takes Ragnthor's head.

"By the nine hells, how do you kill something that is already dead?!" He asks under his breath for the first, but most certainly not the last time. And the answer, much like every time after, is what cannot be kill can be cut in 2. And so he does so, laughing as it falls backward. "Fight among yourselves, damned things. Nash, Where Are…" He turns and sees.

Nash is holding a spot in the line where 2 men once stood, and losing. With the stench distracting him just enough he can't enter a berserk rage, he can't break, stomp, and hack enough corpses to stop them from dragging him down. He dies well, not a sound escaping his lips, more than a dozen bodies hacked to pieces around him.

Old Gorm jumps forward to take his spot, axes streaking silver around him. But the line is breaking, the battle nearly done. For how can you beat a foe who gets replacements from your dead.

Then, a voice rings out in the darkness, borne by the cold wind. "Do not slay all. Take alive those that you can, For The Slave Pits!" Queen Vammatar, said to be more than 300 years old. She, then, personally commands these dead men.

Another, softer, voice rises. "Keep Fighting! Never Surrender! Not until DEATH!" Borka cries.

She has grabbed he father's axe and is laying waste to all around her. Ragnthor give a brief smile. No more than Nordic women are the daughters of Malacath pampered playthings. Instead they are daring warriors.

In that instant, a plan forms. "Borka, the battle is lost. But you can still make it."

She looks at him, eye wild and full of tears. "What do it matter when…my father…."

He snorts and throws her over his shoulder. "You're father would do as I'm doing. Now Come!"

With the maid in his arms, he hacks, kicks and shoves he way through the line of fights, and down the corpse strewn hill, his goal unmoving. Nor does Vammatar notice his near silent approach. Not until steel hands haul her from her horse and throw her into a deep pool.

"There, Queen of Corpses, into the bog with you. And would that my creed didn't forbid slaying "nobles". Even one such as you." He throws Borka on the stallion. "There girl, we have traveled far and suffered much to rescue you. Now ride, and pray that this is only a horse and not some demon."

"But… I cannot leave my people…."

Vammatar struggles to her feet in the muck. "Get Them! GET THEM BOTH!"

A moment earlier Ragnthor had considered jumping on behind her, but as the horde grabs at him, tears at his throat, holds fast his left arm, it's all he can do to tear free and slam the flat of his blade on the great horse's hip. "HAIYYAAH! RIDE GIRL, RIDE. TO THE CAPITAL AND SAFETY!" Then, as the black horse bolts, she looks back to see her Nord rescuer fall beneath a pile of cadavers.

"Leave the girl, and the horse can be replaced. Now, my legion, take the captives back to Castle Haloga. For it is truly said that no one escapes my slave pits."

It is fated that, in the weeks before his 19th birthday, Ragnthor will be first over the wall of Venarium, followed closely by the king's personal guard and the king himself. But even if it were known to him, it would offer the young man testing the strength of his bonds no relief. The coming weeks will give him enough new scars, both physical and mental, to earn him high praise among the Orcs. Scars he will bare until long after he has forgotten how he got them.

As for Borka, she rides fast and hard toward her betrothed, where she will manage to get him to raise the clans loyal to him to battle, and gain new clans to his side, and lead them to push out the encroaching Bretons. And the first stop will be Castle Haloga to free Ragnthor, son of Freynar the Vast, a son who is following, in his own fractured way, the path of his father.

Author's note: Not quite as long as the other 2, but a great intro to Ragnthor's time among the Orcs. And a Decent lead up to the actual sacking of Venarium, which I think i'm going to try to do. I had some time to think on the tractor and some ideas were floating around for it. But that should be a while. I need to get the next Dragonborn comes Home chapter finished and out first. I've promised myself that it will be the next thing finished, even if it takes another year. Happy reading.


	4. Haloga and Venarium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a trigger warning. Slavery is not cool bro. And I hammer that point hard. So the trigger warning is for:Slavery, Rape, the weird kill my friends thing angry Ragnthor does, Forced Abortion, little bit of torture, Abuse and a lot of it, Suicide. I think that is all of it. If I missed something I should warn about that you find in while reading, send me a message and let me know. My writing is my writing and that will not change. But if I cover subjects that I know can be harmful to people I would like to let them know, because I try not to be a complete ass.

Sounds of ringing steel and cheering voice rise above the castle beneath the floating black birds to echo in the hills beyond. And those in the hills, both old and new, know what is happening. A pit fight in Castle Haloga.

Standing in the center of the walled arena is 3, no 4, warriors surrounded by a horde of shambling foes. The tallest among them, a Nord the size of a barn door, is issuing orders, waving a broadsword in directions before turning to defend his portion of the square.

"Kharag, use that damned shield of yours to keep them off Isa, can't you see her head is still ringing!" He has to fight the urge to charge into the midst of them, wrestling his anger under control.

One shuffles at him, a once Orc, and he parries the blow once, twice, and on the third buries the sword in its head. Always the head. Only way to stop them.

He feels a broad back press against his. Instantly he calls "Amiel Switch!" As they spin around each other he grips his sword with both hands before surging forward into a knot of undead.

Limbs fly around him as he allows himself a brief surge of anger before pulling back to turn around and glance at his companions. Isa is finally standing upright even though the blood streaming down the left side of her face is gumming her eye shut. _Have to do better. Have to keep them alive_.

Suddenly the undead horde surges forward seemingly, finally, intent to end them. "Ameil, Behind Me! Isa, Kharag, Don't Let Them Behind Us!" At the weary sighs he knows this is the end. Either they kill them now or they are killed.

Amiel, a broad shouldered Imperial, falls a shortly after. Snarling he pushes his corner harder, allowing Isabella, a slim Breton, and Kharag, an Orc nearly as large as himself, to close a shield wall behind him. A shield wall that falls moments later as Kharag is pulled down by nearly a dozen walking corpses.

He tears forward, letting just a little more anger flow through him. Enough to quicken his movement and enhance his strength. _Have to save her. Can't let them all die again._ Suddenly he heard the tinkling metal and from Isa's curse he knew her sword had finally broke. Tapping into more of the anger his movements change. No longer a swordsman but a butcher he clears the undead in front of him with great sweeping strokes.

Almost as fast as a blinking eye he stoops and grabs a fallen sword, shoving it into the girl's hand as he roars "SWITCH AND RUN FOR THE WALL!" Without even waiting for a reply he turns and cleaves through 3 corpses about to overwhelm the child.

The edges of his vision are tinged red as his fury grows, broadsword flashing like lightening to serve head and limb, to slice bodies in two in a single stroke. Still the seemingly endless horde forces him back, back until he feels a shield press against his back. A trembling shield, held by a young woman who is barely more than a girl.

The thought drives him to momentary clarity and he realizes he is bleeding from dozens of wounds, making his chest shine red, mixed with the gore from countless rotting bodies. Then he hears it, the shuddering, barely restrained cries of a girl who knows she is going to die. Die crushed and smothered beneath countless boots only to rise and become one. And he goes mad. In his last moments of clarity his visions fragments. _This…is what…father told me…_ then his mind goes blank.

The first thing he sees when he regains his mind is that he is holding a girl. The second thing it that it is less than half a girl. "Is…a…" The look on her face is one of extreme pain and horror, frozen even as the girl's eyes rapidly glaze. He crushes the young Breton tightly to him for a moment before gently laying her on the ground. "Vammatar!" He tears toward the closest wall and jumps, making with 2 feet of the top of the 12 ft wall. His finger tips screams as he digs them into the log post and claws his way to the top, leaving streaks of blood and pieces of fingernail.

He surges over the wall and grabs the first witch man he sees by the neck, instantly crushing it. He throws the body over the side and charges forward, red tinged eyes seeing the witch queen on the far side. "VAMMATAR!" A man jumps at him from seemingly nowhere and he swings on instinct, feeling his fist sink deep into the man's chest.

As he tears through another knot of witch-men he glances over and sees, for the first time, fear on the unnaturally pale face of the queen. And it drives him to greater fury. Suddenly an arm appears in front of him and he grabs it, giving a massive wrench. It comes off with a wet tear.

They fight him every step of the way and he leaves the ground covered and blood and gore. The ground around him is littered with weapons yet he refuses to grab one, preferring instead to fuel his fury with the sensations of breaking bones, tears throats, and smashing skulls. A small, very small, part of him wonders at the change since he has been here. _Stronger, much stronger_ he muses as he grabs the arm of a man attempting to skewer him with a sword and breaks it with almost no resistance.

Suddenly she is there, standing before him, eyes showing fear yet not bowing to it. But he can't reach her. A half dozen men cling to his right arm and just as many as his left. One particularly large man has an arm wrapped around his neck as he beats him over the head with a club. As even more pile on, more arms than even a man berserk can rip from their sockets, they force him to the ground and beat and kick him to unconsciousness.

The sun is low in the sky when he finally opens his eyes. He is chained between 2 posts in the middle of the arena. The chains are tight enough his knees are 6 inches above the ground. He gets to his feet and looks around, fury building.

"So The Mighty Nord Has Awakened! You Have Caused Us No End Of Trouble These Few Months! So I Have Chosen To End You!" A gate on the far side of the arena opens and horseman charges out, bring to bear a war lance.

Ragnthor strains at his bonds, but even though they creak they won't give. Time starts to slow as he realizes what he has to do even as he doubts he can do it. So he pulls and hopes. Suddenly, just before the lance reaches him he roars as his thumb dislocates and he pulls his right hand free even as it feels like he is losing his finger. He ducks under the lance and slams his fist into the horses head, feeling more than half the bones in his hand break instantly.

The horse drops like it was hit with an axe, spilling the rider. Ragnthor darts forward and barely manages to drag a fallen axe toward him. He grabs it with his left hand and brings it down once, twice, finally three times, breaking the other chain.

He stands there a moment, looking at his hand. He flexes it and winces in pain _Not enough bone left to make a fist. Whole arm is a club._ He is pulled out of his thought by a quick dodge that saves him from losing his head. He buries the axe deep into the skull of the knight.

"Vammatar! Where are you?" he charges toward the open gate.

* * *

"Nord. Do you think it could be him Heart-wife?"

"I don't know husband. We do live by the border. But if anyone could survive it would be him."

The big Orc nods. Tall and dressed in the finest armor his craftsfolk had made, he turns. "BROTHERS! SISTERS! WARRIORS! TODAY IS THE START OF OUR WAR! TODAY WE MAKE THE FIRST MOVE TO DRIVE BACK THOSE WHO WOULD ENCROACH ON OUR LAND! FOR 300 YEARS THE WITCH-QUEEN VAMMATAR HAS SQUATTED IN OUR BORDERS AND NONE DARED FACE HER! THAT CHANGES TODAY! FOR SHE STOLE MY WIFE AND TOOK THE WHOLE OF THE FIGHTING MEN OF HER FATHER'S 3 STRONGHOLDS AS SLAVES! TODAY WE DRIVE HER OUT AND RIDE THE RED TIDE AND BEAT BACK EVERY ENCOURSION MADE FOR THE LAST 2 HUNDRED YEARS!" A chorus of roars and cries rise up to meet him, from an army 15,000 strong.

"TODAY WE GO AND RESCUE THE SON OF THE VAST! WITHOUT WHOM I WOULD HAVE NEVER SEEN MY BELOVED HEART-WIFE AGAIN! A MAN WHO I, GORGATH HAMMERHAND, DECLARE BLOOD-KIN! DECLARE AS ORC AS ANYONE OF YOU! ONWARD TO RESCUE OUR BROTHER!"

As is fitting from a king he leads front the front, riding the wave of warriors down the hill to surround the castle and scale the walls. From the surrounding hill archers fire volley after volley into the very heart of the fortress, death on black arrows.

* * *

He stalks through the castle like a wounded panther. Silent, stopping at every door, checking every hall. Vammatar will die tonight. So focused on his task he doesn't even notice the sounds of battle rising outside of the wall.

Suddenly he is surrounded. A dozen men fill the hall before and behind him. He reacts without thinking and 4 fall in seconds. _Left hand is slow. Need more practice._ Still he goes about his bloody work with glee.

Just before he cleaves the last in half he remembers him. A personal guard for the queen. He drops the axe and grabs the man by the throat, slamming him into the wall. "Where. Is. She?"

The man refuses to speak, spitting into the Nord's eye. He merely chuckles. "If I tear out you windpipe, will you still live? You couldn't talk but surely you would be able to suck air down a gaping hole."

The man swallows. "Turn left down the next hall. Tap on the 7th stone on the far side and it will open a panel. It leads down into the belly of the castle, where she performs her most powerful spells."

* * *

"The Ladders Are Too Short! I NEED MAGES! NOW! AT THE GATES!" Seeing the horde shift and separate Gorgath runs toward the gate, planning on beating the mage-kin there.

* * *

"Vammatar! So this is your workshop!" Ragnthor calls as he stalks through the undercroft of the castle.

Dark and foreboding as one would imagine, glass vials of all shapes and sizes weave strange patterns in the half light. Ragnthor's every nerve is on edge, poised to jump at any sound or even a breath of wind.

"You won't escape me witch. And you will pay for every harm inflicted for the last 300 years."

* * *

"Legionaries! Turtle Formation! Mages, In The Center! Frontline, Focus Destruction Magic On The Gate! BURN IT TO ASHES! Second Line, Barrier Spells To Stop Oil And Boulders! LET NO MAN FALL UNTIL WE CLOSE ON THE WITCH-KIN!"

* * *

"How many has it been?" He roars before throwing his good fist at the slim woman, picking her up and throwing her a good 5 ft. "How Many!"

She wipes the blood off her mouth with a shaking hand. "25." She struggles to her feet. "You did them a kindness. They were so butchered I couldn't use them." He hits her again then grabs her by the hair, pulling her behind him. "Where Are You TAKING ME!"

"To some friends."

* * *

Gorgath grabs a running man. "Find me 200 heavy infantry, 400 ex-legionaries, and 300 berserkers. A strike force to breach and hold the entryway."

He nods. "Of course, my lord."

He turns back to the gate. He speaks to no one. "The protective magics were impressive. Forcing the door to melt rather than burn. But soon we shall be through."

* * *

He stands on a section of wall overlooking the slave pits. "BROTHERS! SISTERS! BEHOLD THE WOMAN WHO TORMENTS US!" Twisting her long hair again in his hand he lifts her over the edge even as she cries out in pain. "WHAT SHOULD WE DO WITH HER?"

Hundreds of cries ring out, matching in volume the noise from outside the walls. One command alone. "DROP HER!"

She stares at him in horror, even as she wraps her hands around his wrist in a vain effort to take her weight off of her hair. He chuckles. "THE FALL ALONE WON'T KILL HER! BUT…" using what little movement he has left in his hand he reaches into his rags and tosses something shiny into the pit. A ring of keys.

"You wouldn't!"

He gives her a grim smile. "I have vowed to never kill one of noble blood, without the command of a leader. But this, this won't kill you." Her screams echo through the hills as she falls. "JOIN ME AND WE WILL RIUN THIS CASTLE FOR ALL WHO COME AFTER!" A thousand blood mad voices rise to meet him.

* * *

The gates finally fall and Gorgath charges through, to see a chaotic sight. 100s of unarmored, emaciated people attack dozens of warriors and mages. Dressed in nothing but rags and wielding whatever they can get their hands on, the once slave's eyes are filled with murderous frenzy.

Gorgath raises a hand. "Hold here. And let no one out. This fire will sort itself in time. I'm going in, to see if I can find him."

He turns and a hand on his back stops him. It is one of his most powerful warchiefs. A broad, stocky Orc named Razgugul Ice-blood. From the deep mountains his accent is thick. "My lord, allow me to accompany you. These people…2 sets of eyes is better than one." He nods and they carefully walk through the castle together.

After a while of walking through the roar of blood mad battle, they hear a change. Hysterical, frenzied screaming. The 2 Orcs look at each other before they charge in that direction. Presently they come upon a knot of slaves with their back toward a small alcove. Mostly woman, they are led by a massive man who is stained red as he cuts through a group of witch-men.

"Protect The Children! Push, THERE HAS TO BE AN END TO THEM!"

Suddenly there is a blood mad scream and one of the women falls to more than a dozen swords and axes. The massive Nord rushes to fills the gap in the line, and lays waste to them.

6 fall before his axe finally breaks. Then he tears into them with his hands. Gorgath can see that he has done something to his right hand as he uses his forearm as a club as he rips and tears with his left. It is over in mere moments. He throws the last body at the remaining men and they flee as the sight of the mangled corpse.

The man drops to his knee next to the woman, barely more than a child Gorgath sees as he draws close and over hears the words the man speaks. The Nords holds her in his arms and Gorgath sees the girl is still alive, through from the shuddering breaths he knows not for long.

"Rest, young mother. You have done well. Tu'whacca is coming to guide you to the Far Lands. Had you died in your warms sands you would have earned a spot in the Hall of Warriors."

"B-b-burn my b-b-body. I-i-ve seen what h-h-app…"

"Of course."

"Please t-t-take Pitof to my p-parents. T-t-they live in H-h-hallin's S-s-stand and their n-n-names are…" the breathing stops.

His massive shoulders sag in defeat as Gorgath walks up. "Are you Ragnthor, son of the Vast?"

The man stands and Gorgath has to fight the urge to step back from the man that stands head and shoulders above him. His eyes are swirling steel volcanoes mixed with equal parts hate, rage, pain, and sadness. The words come slowly, thick with emotion. "Yes. Who are you?"

"Gorgath Hammerhand, King of the Orcs."

He watches the Nord grapple with his emotions and the natural unbreakable will of the Nords before he sinks to one knee. "My…lord." He rises. "If you will…excuse me. I have a castle to tear down." He turns.

He puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "Allow us to help."

Ragnthor doesn't even turn around. "Then leave no witch-man alive. They all die. For Isa. For Branwen." He points at the dead girl as crying babe, no more than a year, trying to gain some comfort from his mother. "For the 25 killed by my hand and the 1000s killed by theirs." He walks off into a dark corridor.

* * *

She waiting just inside the trees in the clearing overlooking the once castle. He had been there for hours. Gorgath had finally sent a healer to him. A healer who is finally standing and walking away.

"Is he better?"

"His body is healed, yes. But his mind? That may take years." He walks past her, back to the camp.

She stares for a moment before walking toward him. He has changed so much and just the last few months. "Ragnthor? Is that really you? It's me, Borka." She raises a hand to cover a cry as he looks at her.

The last time she saw him he was a child. Full of fight and challenge but a child. But the hollow, swirling, hate filled eyes that look at her now are those of a man. A man the world has tried to break…and failed. A man who has walked through hell and came back unharmed.

"Do I scare you?" he sneers.

"Ragnthor! What happened to…" she jerks back the hand she was reaching to him as his eyes flick toward it, and she swears she could feel the heat of his hate.

"I was a child then. What child doesn't dream of rescuing a princess from a castle? And what was my reward? Slavery and 25 friends dead by my hand." She gasps and he sneers at her. "The last one was today. The only one I remember. Isabella. Do you know what the last thing I remember before I saw her dying? That I saved her at the cost of my own life. Saved her from a horde of undead as big as the one that killed your father. And then the haze clears and I see what I have done. I had cut her in 2 from shoulder to hip." He holds his arms out and she sees tears form in his eyes as he must be remembering her. "The look on her face was one of horror, frozen so completely it was still there as her eyes glazed over. I just knelt there, covered in her blood, and guts, and shite, realizing I killed her. And she knew it. My reward."

Tears fill her eyes. "Ragnthor…s-stop…"

"Today, after I killed the witch Vammatar and freed my fellow slaves, I watch a woman barely older than myself give her life to protect her child, a child she didn't want. A child that climbed on the corpse of his mother, crying, not understanding why she wasn't moving and growing cold. My reward."

He stands and walks toward her as she buries her face in her hands. "I hate you, Borka, with every fiber of my being. But I want you to know," he puts a hand on her shoulder and she feels the rage coursing through him, "even knowing what I do, I would do it again. Because that is who I am." He turns and leaves her crying.

* * *

He stalks through the woods, intent on leaving, when a voice stops him. "You were too hard on her."

He wheels and comes face to face with the king. "With all due respect, my lord, I don't care."

"But you should. She rallied the clans to save you."

He struggles with his anger, upbringing fighting nature. "She is one month younger than me, did she tell you that? And she has never seen a woman, chained to a wall, raped 5 ft from her. She has never seen a woman find out she is with child and beat her stomach until she miscarries. She has never seen other women bash their head against the wall until their brains leaked from their ears after being raped, for honor or the fear of child. Nor the same souls beg to have their bones pulverized as they die so that they won't be brought back. Or turned into a weapon of carnage that kills friend and foe alike due to a genetic flaw, a shifted Nordic catalyst as my father called it."

"You were still too hard…"

He snarls. "Did you know I was noble born? My father had a position higher than Nash ever rose to be. I never had silks but to be a slave? To be tortured? Look at me!" He tears his rags off and gives a grim smile as the king looks away. "Look At Me!" His body is scored with dozens of fresh wounds, heaped upon dozens more red, puckered, fresh scars.

He drops his voice to a whisper. "The only reason my face was spared was so it wouldn't frighten the girls they tried to get me to breed. Girls that would cower in a corner for fear of what would happen or would thrown their naked bodies at me for they were still scared of the whip and the iron. I have every right to hate everyone that led me here. And everyone but her is dead." He pulls the shirt back on and wraps himself back in the blanket.

They stand in silence for a while, before Gorgath speaks. "I need you Ragnthor."

"Why?"

He sighs. "Because you are a symbol, greater to my people than I. You, an outsider, risked everything to save my wife. The wife of a king you did not know nor were bound to. And then you single handedly destroyed a menace that has plagued our land for years. You started a war that every Orc thinks will drive the Bretons from our lands. And because of your father, Legate Freynar the Vast. He didn't judge on race and had more Orcs under his personal command than any other Legate. Rumor is you are bigger than he was now."

"I am not my father."

"I know. But I don't need your father. I need a hero."

He scoffs. "I'm no hero."

"I know that. You're a scared child. Kicked, beaten, and thrown in a pit. But 15,000 men and women think you are. Let me show you." He wraps an arm around Ragnthor and leads him down through the camp.

Everywhere they walk, hushed reverence falls. "Do you see? They came to free you, because of your father. Now they think you are blessed by whatever gods you believe in because of what you have done."

He sags. "Very well. What are we going to do?"

He leads Ragnthor to his tent and points at a map. "Venarium. Translates to "Hunting Town" in…"

"The Nedic variant of old Imperial."

"The Nedic Variant, I didn't…never mind. This is the Bretons most recent settlement. Even so it is a large town, numbering some 10,000 souls. All frontier men and women, all hardened." Ragnthor nodded as he looked at the map.

"Anything else?"

Gorgath gives a grim smile. "It has a wall."

Ragnthor sighs. "That's…not much."

"I was hoping you would lead a scouting party. Borka has told me that snuck into the castle to save her. And I can trust you."

"And what will my reward be?"

"Pay, if you want it." The king walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. "To help you find peace, when you want it. And training in all the knowledge we Orcs have, for I have declared you Blood-Kin, declared you as Orc as anyone of us. Speaking of which." Gorgath turns and pulls a sheathed dagger out of a chest. "I commissioned this from my Forge-wife before I left. She is the finest craftsman under my command. There is normally ceremony to go with this but it need not happen. This dagger will tell all Orcs you have been declared Blood-Kin by Gorgath Hammerhand and they will give you respect due to a king."

He takes the dagger and pulls it from the sheath. It is a cross of Orcish and Nordic design, wickedly sharp and finely engraved. Tears fill his eyes as emotion, real emotion not hate or anger, flows through him. Emotions he can no longer remember the name for. "Thank…you. I…need armor, heavy. I'll…make it work. And 40…men. From the castle if any…chose to follow you. Less noticeable. And a horse."

"It shall be so. A man outside will take you to the quartermaster. Thought it might take some time for the armor, you are a big man."

Ragnthor nods and turns to leave. "Have a man take the child, Pitof, to Hallin's Stand and ask for the parents of Branwen, who went missing 2 years ago. Tell them their child was taken as a slave but died a free woman and her child yet lives. And if they don't take him raise him here, as an Orc." He walks out of the tent.

* * *

Nailed to a tree, the body was facing into the small clearing. Gutted, with his ribs broken and pointed out, eyes remove, lips skinned back to reveal a skull's smile. From the blood the man had been dead for no more than 3 hours.

"What do we do, warchief?"

Ragnthor rubs his temples. "Get him down, we bring Markus to the king, maybe he will finally listen.

A short while later Ragnthor walks into the camp, body in his arm and on display. "GORGATH!"

The king emerges from his tent and Ragnthor throws the body at his feet. He curses "Markus."

Ragnthor smiles as he sees the gathering crowd. "We do not fight bandits, Hammerhand! We Do Not Fight Rebels! This is what we gain by waiting! This, AND MORE LIKE IT!"

The crown grows and there are murmurs of agreement. The king looks around and tries to restore order as Ragnthor continues. "How many dead friends, Gorgath! How Many Dead Brothers! They will not come out TO FACE US! They wait, FOR US TO BECOME BORED WITH THEM!"

"Ragnthor, Hold Your…"

"They Have Claimed This Land As Their Own! ORCISH LAND! We can kill them and kill them and they will just send more! They Will Not Be Scared Out, nor worn down! They Will Not Be Starved Out! They Will Not Be Harried Out! Or Burned Out! THEY WILL NOT RUN!"

Voices rise in the crowds. "The Nord Is Right! Listen To Him!"

Ragnthor turns and faces the crowd. "Only One Way, My Brothers And Sisters, One Way, And Only One Way, To Get Them Gone! The Only Way To End This IS TO CUT THEM OUT!" He draws his sword and runs into the forest. The effect is instantaneous, like touching a fuse with a match.

They have been waiting, tense and eager for battle, but no longer. They have seethed at the insult toward their land, their pride, but no longer. There was no thought of leadership, they need none, nor would they accept it. Not that night. The news spread from clan to clan like a wildfire, and the clans took arms and came. There would be no warning, no advance word, no preparation for the Bretons to find.

The forest was seething with bodies. Some cut saplings for crude ladders, other simply grab their weapons and come. The clans were being called. And they would answer. And there was no warning, just a snarling, building roar in the night.

* * *

"Daimon, do you hear that?"

"Hear what, you prick?"

"That roaring…SWEET MOTHER MARA! THE HILLS ARE BLACK WITH THEM! YOUR HORN DAIMON, YOUR HORN!"

He raises the horn to his lips only to hear one from across the town. Then another. And another. "B-b-b-by the g-g-g-gods. We're surrounded." His companion doesn't here him, for his is calling orders to the men below.

Daimon stares out over the field, dumbstruck at the sight of the oncoming horde. Suddenly a figure pulls away from the mass. A man that seems like a giant. Enchanted, he watches the man reach the base of the wall, reach for both hands, and leap…

"Pour The Oil! NOW DAMN IT!" Jolting he does as he is told, watching the black liquid hit the man climbing the wall and force him down.

"But, without fires to heat it, it won't do anything!"

His commander smiles at him, "I know," as he drops a torch.

It hit the man, setting him on fire, still he didn't stop. Quickly he reaches the top, grabbing and pulling the commander over and into the fire. Then he stands there, facing Daimon, fire rippling oily off him. Daimon screams as the great sword cuts his body in two, head and chest falling into the town.

* * *

As he sees the torch falling towards him he is glad he wiped the oil off his face. And remembered to grab the helmet. Quickly he wipes as much oil from his face as he can and slams the visor shut. The he feels the torch bounce off his head and an overall heat surround him. He smiles. _The armor was indeed well made._

He grabs the first face he sees and drags them over the edge to pull himself up. Finding his feet he swings the broadsword, making the air hiss, and cut the next person in 2. "TO ME BROTHERS! BRING A LADDER!"

From the screams rising around the town he can tell other walls haven't fared as well. Suddenly the ladder hits the wall as men charge from both sides. He smiles and swings, first to the right and then the left, and the bodies fall off the battlement to crash heavily on the ground 30 ft below.

He laughs as the keep coming, as he stands guard over the ladder. The battlements are narrow enough he never has to face more than 4 or maybe 5 men at a time. And he relishes it. A short swing, helmet rent and skull cleft, spin, sword buries itself half through another and he smiles as he kicks her back to cause other to trip. A sword bounces off his back and he wheels to see a Breton come in close, he gives a roar and grabs the man by the neck with one hand and throws him off into open space. His sword moans hungrily, thirsty for blood and eager to turn against those who made it.

Suddenly there is someone beside him "Mobrukk!"

"By the Ashlands! You're a gods damned fiend, fighting while on fire!" It is only then he realizes the fire has gone out, leaving him covered in black soot and laughs.

Another Orc clears the wall. "Brar! You and Mobrukk go left, I'll take the right. Do not let that line fall or I'll find a way into the Ashlands to kill you again!" Mobrukk turns to argue but Ragnthor is making headway to a guard tower, ground covered in blood and piece of body flying, savage laughter floating over all.

Suddenly a cry echoes over the battle din. "A Merry Life! And A Short One!" and more than a thousand call back "AND MAY THEY JUDGE YOU BY THE BODIES PILED AT YOUR DOOR!"

It is a tough fight. These are no soft skinned townsfolk by men and women who chose to life on newly taken land. So it's a fight, hard and bloody, for every inch. By the time Ragnthor has fought his way to the bottom of the guardhouse his is covered head to toe in blood and struggling to keep his anger under control. He breaks out and finds a massive group of fighters waiting for him. He charges them alone and starts to lay waste to them.

He is…content to kill. To stand there and laugh as they keep throwing men at him. Suddenly a voice calls out, a voice so full of command even he pulls himself away from killing to listen. "The Gates! THE GATES YOU DAMNED BERSERKERS! WE NEED TO OPEN THE GATES!"

He turns and starts to cut a path to the gates when he sees her. He stops in his tracks, stunned, wondering. He walks toward her in a daze, completely unheeding the battle around him. He reaches out a hand "Ly…" before his eyes the body shimmers and changes. It's not her. The pain, the rage, the smell of blood drive him mad. He grabs the girl's neck with one hand and snaps it like rotten wood.

Fury and pain driving him like a whip he finally makes the gate. Driving his sword into the ground he grabs the bar that 4 broad men were trying to lifts and heaves it from the brackets. Straining he throws it to the side and grabs his sword. "Get the damned gate open."

The battle was going well, at least as well as a close quarter can. Then it happens. They were in an open area and Ragnthor and the king are forced apart by the sheer numbers. Even years later he was never truly able to understand how he noticed, but notice he did. From the tower in the middle a massive bolt was hurtling down, propelled by magic. So large it must have been hewn from a tree, it was flying toward Gorgath.

"NO" is all he manages to get out as he taps into more of his anger.

His vision swims red, like a swirling tide. His movements are faster, so fast it seems like everyone is frozen. He reaches the king, shoving him to the side, and knows what he must do. Shattering the damn holding back his anger he swings at the bolt. As his sword hits it he feels the massive weight of it. The last thing he feels.

* * *

Breaking skulls, swords, and shields with his mace, Gorgath roars with joy. It has been years since he has been able to do this, to kill, to lose himself in battle. And he knows the massive Nord beside him feels the same. As they enter the courtyard a massive number of foes await them. And they tear into them with glee. He doesn't notice when they fighting forces them apart. In fact he only notices when he hears him roar "NO" and he is shoved to the ground. He rolls over to see Ragnthor standing over him, facing down what looks like a ballista bolt. With a start he realizes that it is 5 times larger. As he reaches up to grab Ragnthor and pull him down, the massive Nord roars and swings his sword.

Somehow he manages to deflect the bolt and it careens into a row of buildings, destroying the first 2 it comes to. So focused on the bolt he barely notices that Ragnthor has become a whirlwind of destruction, enough the rival a god. Within moments the men facing them have been hacked to pieces and Ragnthor stands there, head twitching back and forth, eyes blank and bloodshot, looking for something to kill.

Gorgath tries to rise to his feet but a hand stops him. He looks over to see a Breton, a little bigger than average. As he isn't trying to kill him Gorgath assumes it is one of the men who joined at Castle Haloga. The man bends close to his ear. "Do not move, my lord. This is what Ragnthor called a twisted catalyst. All the fighting prowess of Freynar, solely controlled by a rage consumed mind. If you move he will kill you. If you would allow me, my lord, I will save both your life and his, at least for now." Silence is the only answer given, and needed.

The man walks toward the rage blind man. "Ragnthor Freynarson! You have done well, saving both King and Queen." Ragnthor seems not to notice the man as he gets close, even as he looks right at him. "I can feel the rage flowing off you in waves, and know you only crave release." He wraps an arm around him and gently turns him. "Go that way and you can kill as many as you need to see if that will help. And I will see you later." Ragnthor tears off with unnatural speed.

The man walks back to him and pulls Gorgath to his feet. "I hope you have regained control of your men, or as many as them will die as Bretons this night. Keep them from that part of the city, save one man to watch him from a distance. I…don't know how long he will last like that but when he falls he will need medical help."

Gorgath stares after Ragnthor before he turns "Thank…" the man who was just behind him is gone.

* * *

He stands alone on the mist filled plain. Unable to hide, even from his feelings. His hate, pain, disgust, sorrow is flowing freely through him. And he shudders at the scale of them all.

"So" a rich voice calls to him, "You have found your way here again. Only a few months from last time."

He drops to a knee. "My lord. I…"

"Rise young Nord. For you have learned in these few months."

Ragnthor sits cross legged in front of the god. "Have I?"

"You gave your all to save a King. A worthy sacrifice. Far better than last time, giving your life to save your life."

"Thank you my lo…"

"But you still haven't gained conviction. Were it not due to favors owed I would not have seen you this night."

"Conviction?"

Arkay kneels in front of the boy and puts a hand on his head, like a father. "You need something to fight for, a reason to live."

"But I was in service to a king."

"Causes are inconsequential. Conviction comes from somewhere, deep inside. What lies in your heart boy!"

"I…don't know."

"Think back to the castle, when did you fight? Who did you fight to save? Who's face did you see behind every young woman? Who's face did you see countless times in Venarium, only to kill when hope was quenched?"

"L-l-lydia."

The god smiles down at him and stands. He waves his hand and a sword appears in front of both of them. "Then Rise, Ragnthor Freynarson, And Fight Me With Your Heart's Desire On Your Lips!"

Ragnthor rises with a roar, but not a name. "NEVER! She Is Good And Pure! Never To Be Used In Anger OR HATE!" He swings the sword with pain fueled fury.

The god catches the blow and punches the man in the face. "Foolish boy! THEN I WILL TEACH YOU WITH PAIN WHAT YOUR FATHER TRIED TO TEACH YOU WITH LOVE!" he then launches into a flurry of blows.

Ragnthor is beaten back by the onslaught. Blow after blow, beating down his guard. Getting a nick here and another there. All the while he roars, not in pain but in fury. Sure, he lands a blow her, and another there, but nothing solid. Nothing good enough to stop a god.

Suddenly the point is streaking toward his face. Without thinking he throws up his hand to stop it. It drive into his hand and bursts out the back, still streaking toward his face. He twists his arm, shuddering at the movement of bones in his hand, deflecting the blade and charging in.

Arkay merely punches him, knocking him clear off the sword. "A shame," he states as he walks toward the fallen Ragnthor. "You showed such promise."

"I am no longer worthy," he mumbles through crushed lips.

"Worthy of her, or Sovengarde?"

"Both."

He sighs. "Then you will have neither. A death by a God Banishes you from your promised afterlife, unless your soul has been claimed by a Daedra. And you, my boy, will be bound for the Shivering Isles, unless another pantheon takes pity on you." He stabs down at the fallen boy.

As the point falls toward him is slows and suddenly she is there, in his mind. Fragments of her and pieces of her, the day by the river, the wedding dress, an older her wearing it staring at him with pure love, their first night together, an older her again, crying under a shed looking at his father's house, her when he told her his father had died. The smell of her hair, the feel of her skin, everything that was good and pure in his life. Everything he had left behind.

"no." He mumbles and flinches, causing the sword to miss its killing blow. "I…will…see her…again."

The god draws the blade out. "Who?"

Ragnthor staggers to his feet. "Her."

The sword flies at him again and he barely manages to deflect it. "Who will you see!" The sword strikes again, like lightening.

This time he strikes hard and true, feeling pure for the first time in months, and breaks the godly weapon before driving his own sword deep into the god's heart. "LYDIA!"

* * *

He surges up, name still on his lips "LYDIA!" Then he winces in pain as if feels like every bone in his body is broken.

He winces as he sits up and looks around. A medical tent, it is full but not to bursting. A sign that battle is over by at least a day. Those around him as sleeping peacefully, healing. He nods to himself, wondering how long it has been. That's when he sees her. Borka is watching over him, with only a mildly horrified expression. Yet another sign of how long it has been.

"Who is Lydia?"

"Why?"

"You have called that name in your fever for the last 3 days."

"So, it's been 3 days."

"Yes. Who is she Ragnthor? A man who followed you through the city, he said you called that name to women 10 or 12 times. All brown haired and thin. All killed in horrific ways. Who is Lydia?" As Ragnthor starts to struggle to his feet she reaches a hand out. "What Are You Doing!"

He looks at her, eyes full of…something, for even he hasn't chosen yet. "I will tell you, but not here. Too many ears." He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and walks outside.

He walks into the trees and finds a stump to sit on, body weak. He smiles at her. "The snow is deep."

"Ragnthor…"

He sighs. "How much do you know about what brought me here?"

"Nothing. Only that a patrol found you more dead than alive and brought you to us."

He nods. "Then you need the whole story. Lydia is the girl I left behind. We grew up together. From the time we were 10 and her a year younger. We couldn't have been more different. I was the youngest son of a nobleman, born a year before the Great War ended. She was the daughter of a shiftless drunk who could barely hold 2 gold together. But somehow we found each other. I don't know what told me to follow her to the river bank that day, but I did." He looks around. "Could you get me some ale or mead, hell even wine?"

"You shouldn't be…"

"Please? It's only going to get harder. Just enough to take the edge, nothing more." She nods and leaves.

Shortly she comes back and hands him the bottle. He smells it and sighs. "Anything thing in a pinch." He downs what is left in the bottle. "Her mother had died a half year before, kids in town hated her because their parents hated her father. But I didn't grow up in town. And I did what I could to help her. I pestered my father for 2 weeks before he would give her father a job. He did trust the man anymore than the rest of them. But he did, and the man worked hard. Lydia got to come to the farm a few days and week and we grew close together as 2 children do, and on my trip to town I made sure she would be safe from children less kind. And eventually, as children who grow like that are likely to do, we came to love each other." he blinks, hard. "My father had offered me the farm if I could run it for the summer and make a profit. My brother had left with his family for Cyrodiil a few months before. He died just before harvest. My brother came back and claimed the farm, and I did not fight it even though the Jarl knew. He had a wife and young child. Where did that leave me? A youngest son with no skills but farming and fighting, with no money and only a sword and an old suit of armor. So I left. I told her I would come back for her, weighed down with gold and riches. She said she didn't care, begged me to take her with me. Anything for me, anything to not be left alone. For that is what she is, alone. With few friends and horrible father. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't take her life of hardships and add more to it." He stops talking for a while. And Borka grows scare he has passed out. Then he speaks again.

"She's still here," he taps his chest, "And she will never leave. That's what happens when you meet the one at such a young age. But I…can't go back. I'm broken, changed. I'm not the same man I was 5 months ago. I'm not the same man I was 3 months ago. The things I've seen and done. She is too pure, and I couldn't tarnish that with my blacken soul."

A voice rises out of the tree. "I can help you with that." Gorgath.

Ragnthor struggles to his feet. "My lord."

"Peace. And hear my offer. You have destroyed Venarium. And saved my life. I can ask no more of you. And so I offer you this. Wait out the winter in Orsinium. Learn from our craftsmen and veterans, work with our healers. You are entitled to that and more as Blood-kin. And when the snows melt we will give you gold, arms, and armor with a guide to anywhere in the empire and beyond."

* * *

And so it was. Ragnthor spent the winter in the mountain halls of the Orcs and learned their wisdom. And his tale was carved into the Hall of Honor in the place of Orsinium, and it was truthful. That tale of a boy who was forced to be a man, a man who had grown in a short time to best even his own father. And when the snow had melted from the passes he went south, to the Imperial City, where he was soon to make a name for himself in the Arena.

Gorgath and Borka returned home 2 weeks after he had left. The king made it known that the Nord was Blood-kin to the king and was to be respected. And Borka found his story, carved deep into the rock, and fell to her knees and cried. Tears of sorrow for the young man who had been cursed by the god of fate to walk this path, a path far from over.

Author's Note: This is the story. This is what happened to Ragnthor. It's not pretty but this is how it came. As in I sat down and wrote from the start of the chapter to where Ragnthor and Gorgath are walking through the came in less than 12 hours. Even the little Gorgath story parts in the battle just came, I didn't even have to think about it. that rarely happens to me. I will usually get a storyline in mind for a chapter and then hit it for a month, it might even change like the last Dragon Born Comes Home chapter did when I lost half of it. That is why I didn't change a thing. I normally beat around the bush, am not quite so blunt. But this time that's how it came. Up next is I think another chapter here,I'm going to do that desert Bandit story, which takes place after the Arena fights because I want to use of the Isles again. I missed it this chapter. Then I will try to a main story chapter. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	5. The Dreams

_The first fight was easy_ he thinks as he staggers through the streets, watching the rain clean the blood from his hands. _So easy._

* * *

A little bar, dirty and ill lit, but the brandy and wine is cheap. And most folk leave him alone when they see the scars on his arms, even the rogues the haunt the docks. He has been Grand Champion for a week when it happens. A big man, a sailor, hauls him from his seat and throws him on the ground.

"Saw you fight in the Arena. Never been in a real fight before, have you?"

Ragnthor staggers to his feet, meeting the fat mans gaze. "And you're…going to teach me?"

"I Am" and he swings.

Ragnthor catches his fist. "Then make a…wager. I don't….fight for free."

The big Breton throws a bag of gold on the bar and the owner, a Redguard woman, grabs it and motions for the men the clear a space.

The fight is over in moments. One dodge, and then another. Suddenly Ragnthor's left fist flies out and there is a crack as the Breton's neck snaps.

He turns to the bar. "Keep the gold…against my future tab. I've…a fight tomorrow, then I'll…be back." The woman nods and he leaves.

* * *

He leans against a tree, looking at the sky so the rain cleans his face. "They were all easy." He says to no one.

* * *

The wood stinks. And someone is shaking him. "Wake up, Ghost Man, Wake Up!"

He pushes himself up from the wine stained table. "Fuck do you want?"

"I want a match."

Ragnthor blinks, eyes clearing long enough to see it's a Dunmer. A noble house scion maybe. "What's your collateral?"

The man plants a dagger down on the table. "This knife, the blade that cut down Oolaf the Tooth. During the 12 days of the Reef Battle."

"Impressive. Come on then." He turns his back and walks to the cleared area.

"Eh, What about You! What do you bet!"

The owner answers. "He doesn't. You lost the moment you stepped in here, looking for a fight. Pray to your gods you die quickly." She looks up at the man. "But if it makes you feel better, he died himself months ago."

After the fight she brings yet more wine to the blood covered man. He points "Take the knife."

"I don't want the spoils of your sadistic games."

He drinks deeply. "You hate me, don't you."

She scoffs. "I can tell how badly you want me to. You're desperate from someone to hate you as much as you hate yourself." She sighs. "I feel sad for you. I can tell you were probably a great man, once. A warrior and a credit to your home. Your skills are beyond impressive, even for a Champion. But now you are just a sad man, Ghost Man."

He looks at her with blood shot eyes. "Why do you all call me that? I'm not the palest man who drinks here."

"It's because you are dead inside. The spark that lit your soul has died. Usually has something to do with a woman. Few other things can leave a man a husk like you." She walks away.

"Hey" he calls after her. "I'm from Skyrim, Whiterun. Not Bruma. And Ragnthor is my true name, not some title."

She turns back. "I'm Thessy. I'm going to bring you some real food. Eat it or not, I don't care. I just ask one thing. Don't die in my bar."

* * *

He looks around, dripping wet. _What district is this? Where is the Arena?_ "

* * *

He turns from the man on the floor, skull caved by his own fist, and grabs the other man. He raises him above the floor, ignoring his cries of surrender, and snaps his neck.

"Catch Ghost Man!" He wheels and catches a sword. His sword.

Thessy walks toward him, her own curved blade in her hands. "I won't fight you girl."

She sneers. "Why not. I watch you beat men to death, day after day, but you're so broken you won't fight a woman?"

He straightens, one eye swollen shut. "I've killed more women than we both have years. I don't want to hurt you."

"Then you can die!" She springs at him. "It's what you really want, Isn't It!"

The clang of steel drowns out all noise, almost all. "Come on Ghost Man. For weeks I have seen you do nothing but kill. How is this different?" she thrusts upwards and leaves a skittering line of red on his chest as he forces her blade away. "Ah yes, it's because I didn't pay you, because you like me. Well if you're not afraid of me," she breaks the web of steel and kicks out his knee, "be afraid of something else!" A savage blow sends the massive Nord to his knees. "Be afraid of your own death!"

She knocks aside his blade and with the speed of a master swordsman delivers a killing blow from above. A blow that never makes it as his own blade bursts out of her back. She lets out a gasp as she slides off of his sword.

"I warned you, Thessy. You knew me." He kneels down at the dying woman's side. "Did you think your death would heal me?"

"I…"

"You've merely gotten yourself killed, like a hundred others." He drops his sword as he staggers out into the night.

* * *

He rounds a corner and a soul stops him, shaking his hand. He has to blink to clear his eyes, a woman is congratulating him about being Champion.

"Champion! I just wanted to congratulate you on your most recent win. Those minotaurs never stood a chance." Her face flushes, "Would you like to…"

He stands up to his full height, towering over the tiny Imperial woman _Barely more than a girl, prettier than most,_ "Thank you, but I fear I am required elsewhere tonight." He turns to leave but she grabs his hand harder.

He looks down to see rage and tears in her face. "Do you not recognize me? We have spoken every night for the last week."

He blinks again, foggy mind still not able to place her. "I…do not."

Her other hand flies toward his face "You Bastard…" he stops the hand as easy as breathing.

He feels rage start to color his features, too drunk to hide it. "Do you know who I am? I Am Ragnthor, son of Freynar. I was taken slave and led the revolt that destroyed a necromantic fortress. I am Blood-kin to Gorgath, King of the Orcs. I led the assault on Venerium and was First over the wall! I came here on a whim and hoped the Arena would dull the pain in my soul, but now I fight little and dull it with mead and wine." He slumps against a wall and slides to the ground. "I don't know what day it is, what time it is, or where I am. Leave me, for I am broken." He sits there, deep in a puddle, watching the feet walk away.

A few hours later he bursts into the arming chambers of the Arena. "Blademaster! ANSWER ME YOU DAMNED CAT!"

The Khajiit seems to appear out of nowhere. "What is it?" Then he sees Ragnthor. "Oh child, what is wrong."

"I'm done Za'dul. I can't stay here but I don't know where to go. I can't afford to drink myself to death so what does that leave?"

"Sit, child, I have something that will help." Za'dul walked off towards his quarters.

He walks back shortly after, holding a leaf. "Do not ask me what this is, or where I got it. Just know it will ease the suffering you feel." Ragnthor grabs the leaf and stares at it before swallowing it.

The effects come slowly at first, then the world goes black

* * *

He is standing on the edge of a forest, bow in his hands. And…Lydia is in front of him.

"Why do I have a bow Lydia?"

"It is such a beautiful day love, walk with me." The slim girl grabs his free hand and pulls him into the forest.

"This is not the Imperial City. This isn't even Cyrodiil. Where are we?"

"Forests frighten me. Ever since that day in the woods years ago. I usually feel like there is a wolf around every tree. But here I feel at home, it's beautiful."

"An answer Lydia. The Bow. Anything."

She continues to ignore him. "I feel so free. There is an excitement to it, the hint of danger."

The come around a tree and Ragnthor sees a quiver of arrows. He grabs it and slings it across his back as Lydia screams.

"LOOK RAGNTHOR!" She screams as she points to the branches. Branches hung with bodies.

25 dead souls. His friends from Haloga. All killed by the same hand, his hand. Suddenly an arrow whistles from the darkness and buries itself in Lydia's chest.

He nocks and looses as she falls, only for a half dozen more to come back at him. All from darkness.

He roars his anger. "How can I kill if there is nothing there?!"

"Nord," comes a soft voice from beside him, "you're a terrible archer."

"I did well enough that day Isa, with what little arrows they gave us," he says as he fires another arrow into the darkness of the forest. For it is her, stitched together with thick black line, eyes still glazed, flesh rotting. One of them.

"I died, Ragnthor."

"There were so many, every time. I thought I had saved you all." He hears thud after thud as arrows slam into the tree he shelters behind.

"Tell that to them," she points to the darkness between the trees, "They're waiting for you, in there."

"Is it revenge? Am I to die in a hail of arrows because of a supposed betrayal? Something I can't control?"

"Nord," she wraps him in a hug from behind, like she used to, "I didn't use the word betrayal, you did. Your woman lies dead, you are surrounded by enemies who seek your blood, and still you are consumed with guilt for past actions. I am dead, and nothing will change that. Take care of those who still live, find honor in that. For life is short." Then she vanishes.

The vision of Isa is painful, even moreso than he would have thought as he darts from tree to tree, rage building higher and higher. Everyone of the 25 were brave and honorable. Yet their bones lie unburied in some forgotten pit, avenged but restless, faces unremembered. The guilt he feels is deep, and mixed with powerful feelings of love, youthful abandon and selfishness.

For the young man of the north, his emotions truly rule him. But what would an older Ragnthor say? Counsel the young man to lose such self destructive emotions. To learn how to master what makes a boy a boy, and grow into a true man. Honor is a noble thing but guilt, guilt destroys the soul.

* * *

The smell of her hair wakes him. He moves closer and wraps her tightly in his arms. "Why did you take me back?" They are at home, his home.

She snuggles into him. "Because I love you."

A small voice comes from the door. "Ma, Da? I can't sleep."

Ragnthor shoots upright, all traces of sleep vanishing. And he sees a boy of no more than 5 standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. He leaps out of bed and presses his back against the wall.

The boy stares at him with confused eyes. "Da…"

* * *

The cold air bites at his face as he stands knee deep in snow, dressed in thickly padded armor. Sword in his hands he roars curses into the trees, the things you roar when hunting a god.

"SHOW YOURSELF, YOU DAMNED BEAST! I KNOW YOUR HOME IS HERE!"

He hears the huff of the charging bear coming from behind him. As he wheels the bear slides to a stop and stands on his hind legs, roaring.

"Elorr, bear of Kyne, I do not wish to kill you but by Talos I will, I will paint the whole of Skyrim red with your blood."

The bear drops and begins to circle the lone man. "What do you want of me?"

The barely constrained rage of the man tears itself free and he charges with a roar. "YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT, DAMN YOU! GIVE ME BACK MY SON!"

The fight is over in a moment, just one dodge and Ragnthor drives his blade down through the god bear's skull and stands there gasping for breath as it falls back off his sword.

"You lash out in anger, seeking to do things by sword point. But there is no cause."

Ragnthor stares down as the bear, all signs of life gone and yet it still speaks to him, in a voice that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Do you remember me from the stories you yourself enjoyed as a child? The protector of the mother goddess? And you know of the loom of fate, that which weaves the threads of life together. The same threads you keep cutting, that which binds you to others and nature. That which makes you a true man. That which makes you mortal. So says the bear: your son never was! Stop hurting yourself…" and Ragnthor leans on his sword and cries.

* * *

Lydia is standing over him, reaching out a hand. "Ragnthor, are you not enjoying this?"

He feels the cold sand at his back as he looks at the sea. "That leaf?"

She smiles at him, laying down. "No silly, your mind!"

He feels the great muscles of the horse roll under him, running hard. "Not very much, no."

He looks over and sees tears form in the eyes of the slim figure riding next to him. "But this is how you feel about us. About me…"

"It's…painful."

She lies there, naked, as he kisses her neck, moaning under his touch. "That is because you fight it, you feel shame. You think there are rules."

He stops and stares into her blue eyes. "There are rules. For men, and women. Do you forget?"

She pulls him back to her. "How could I? Hold me tighter love."

They are standing on a cliff, Ragnthor's sword dripping blood. "Is this some kind of quest?"

She hugs him from behind. "A journey. It will show you secrets and answers, if you look for them."

He wipes his sword clean on his sleeve. "I have seen so little to inspire such faith. Just pain and death."

"Ragnthor, need I remind my great wolf that life is that. Cherish these little, softer moments because yes, there will be pain and death."

He looks down at the sea below them. "Do I know that ship? How do we reach her?"

Lydia smiles at him. "Come." she takes his hands and pulls them over the cliff.

* * *

The village is on fire. She doesn't recognize where she is, only that it is cold despite the fires. She urges the horse hard around a corner and she sees him. Ragnthor. She hears the great sword hum and a man is cut in 2 and she flinches as the blood splatters on her face. Then he walks forward, with the certainty of a zealot, and drives the sword through a cowering woman.

She flies off the horse and grabs his arm screaming "STOP! YOU'RE SLAUGHTERING THEM! Old men, Women, CHILDREN!"

He merely looks at her. "I am. Isn't that what you like? You call me your wolf. Your hardened warrior. You like that about me. You want it."

She looks up at him, tears streaming. "It Was Affectionate!"

"It was the truth. I am a killer from the north, your wolf. But up until now I only did the bidding of my father. Perhaps now you see who I am truly am, you like it less." He grabs her chin and lifts her tear stained face. "Perhaps you fear it."

She shudders under his touch and he smiles savagely. "I am Lydia! I Love You!"

He turns and walks toward the screams of dying men. "You fear the parts of me you do not understand. You fear what is deep inside of me."

She falls to her knees, sobbing, in the ruined town. "But Ragnthor, do you fear what is inside of me?" The slim girl slowly rises to her feet, belly swelling with child.

* * *

He shoots up, and tears through the Bloodworks. He only sees flashes. Za'dul holding the other fighters away from him, smashing through the door leading outside, confusion gripping him as he stands in the street not knowing which way to run, running straight for the wall and scaling it, the screaming urge to run and hide, shelter from his own mind, diving into the lake and swimming to shore. And throughout all is a scattering of images of Lydia.

Holding hands as they walk through Whiterun, back to back as they fend of wave after wave of hooded foes, Lydia screaming in childbirth in…somewhere in Cyrodiil, sitting on a porch as elders, watching the sun set, Ragnthor driving a sword through her chest, the look of shock and pain on her face driving him all the harder.

He collapses in a forest, not sure where he is as his minds fills with visions again.

* * *

He is standing on a high ridge, overlooking a town nestled deep in the mountains. Orsinium. The end of winter, the land still covered in snow but the passes are clear. A lone soul walks from the gates and even from this distance Ragnthor recognizes himself, for even after long months with the Orcs he still walks like a Nord. With a thought his feet leave the ground and he follows his past self from the air like a bird.

With a start he realizes the Ragnthor below him is headed east, toward home, instead of south. He drops from the air like a stone roaring "NO YOU FOOL! YOU NEED TO HEAD SOUTH, AWAY FROM HER!"

He hits the snow as soft as a leaf and reaches out to grab himself but his hands pass through his arm. Suddenly he hears a savage snarl and a wolf the size of a cave bear steps out of the forest to the left.

"If you try to touch him again I'll bite your hand off."

Ragnthor crouched, preparing to fight to the death. "Who are you?"

The massive wolf bristles and snarls. "You. A year ago I was but a cub. You have fed me well." It pulls back its lips to form a savage smile.

"Then why do you stop me?"

Another snarl deep from the wolf's chest echoes in his. "Because he is not you, and I am not him. He truly learned from his time in Orsinium and is returning to his mate."

"But…" in the blink of an eye the wolf knocks him to the ground, snarling and snapping its jaws.

"There is no but. You faced a choice and now you will see the other."

* * *

Whiterun. It's been a year since he has seen home. He watches himself walk through the gate and sees that he draws every eye in town. It wasn't hard to see why. He has gained near to 6 inches in height and looks like an ox, intimidating even in the traveling clothes he wears. Here and there is a gasp as someone recognizes him.

His path through the town doesn't waver at all. Through the gate, over the bridge, and straight to the smallest house in town. He knocks on the door and a slip of a girl answers it, face streaked with tears.

"Y…yes?" She looks up at him and gasps as she sees who it is, burying her face in his chest. "Ragnthor!"

He crushes her to him tightly, worrying at how thin she is. "Lydia…I…" he stops as she holds him with all the strength in her slim body.

"Why…why did…you come home?"

"Because…" he pauses, thinking of his words, "I have seen and been part of the worst things that can happen to a soul, and desire to see no more. But why are you crying?"

"2…days ago…my father…"

Ragnthor watches tears fill his eyes as he holds the crying girl. "Oh…Lydia…"

"I'm…so glad…you're here. I don't…know what…to do."

"I do. Come with me and we'll go to Solitude and take ship, travel until the money is gone or we find a place to stay."

"But this place, it's home."

He kisses her. "No, my love. You are my home."

* * *

And so they sail, heading west around the tip of Skyrim, past High Rock and Hammerfell. It is there, as they sail past the island of Stros M'kai that a wicked storm rises. Both Ragnthor's stand on the deck, one holding his weeping woman in his arms, comforting her, while the other stands with a hand on a wolf that comes up to his shoulder, staring at the faces of Mara, Akatosh, and Kynareth blowing into the sails, driving them farther and farther from shore.

"Is this…"

The wolf huffs. "No. Not here, not now. But take flight from me for while I am not he, that which is me needs help to guide him."

As he floats on the winds above the ship he sees it strike a reef a mile from the nearest piece of land, spine of the ship instantly breaking. And a pair of bodies leap over the side. Ragnthor and Lydia. The bull of a man swims to shore with great strokes and a hand goes to his throat as he feels Lydia's arm squeeze so tight it almost cuts off his breath.

They sit on the shore, too wet to care about the rain. And Ragnthor joins them. After a while the wolf walks out of the trees.

"Why do I recognize that ship?"

He huffs. "In your life, she is your first prize. And you captain her for a time before she sinks off the coast of Black Marsh."

"But is it here?"

"Your choices shape the world nordling. The money you had convinced the captain to change his course, west instead of east."

Time starts to speed before his eyes and years begin to flash by. He feels and sees his pain, as Lydia struggles adjust to her new life, mind near to broken with shock. And he watches himself build a house, survey the island, make hunting weapons and tools. All by himself for years as Lydia processes her new life. 5 years. And for those years he cares for her as if she is a child.

It takes 3 years before he dares to leave her long enough to try to swim to the ship and salvage what he can. It takes him more than a month to build the skill to navigate the reefs and more than 2 to hold his breath long enough to explore the wreck.

And he is successful, when Lydia's mind finally adjusts, she finds a house furnished with items of his hand and those he could take from the ship, and garden growing with the seeds he had managed to find.

They marry in the Atmoran fashion, and in within a year a son is born, named Erling, and a few years later a daughter, Gisli, for Lydia's mother. As they grow Ragnthor teaches them all he has learned from this place. And they grow wild and free.

* * *

Time slows and Ragnthor sees Lydia and himself sitting on the porch, watching their children fight with sticks in the sand.

He wraps and arm around her. "We could build a boat. I know the reefs well enough to navigate out of this little cove. Or we could make it near the shallow bay on the far side of the island. Bigger fish out to sea, more of them too."

She kisses him and he sees that her temples are starting to grey. "A wonderful idea love. Let's do the bay." And so they start, time starting to speed again.

Years pass before she is complete. The Tigress they call her, though both Ragnthors feel…something in their chest's. They put her to the sea, and for the first time in decades Ragnthor sees other people. Clearly a pirate craft, they pull close to them.

"Greets man! We didn't know anyone had settled between here and Yokuda!"

"Didn't mean too. Me and my wife shipwrecked more than 20 years ago. Only survivors."

"Do you have any fruits or the like? Storm knocked us off course and we haven't had any in almost a month. Blew us damned near to Atmora."

He stands there, naked to the waist, with only a dagger at hand, and knows he has no choice. "Aye, anchor in the bay. We'll trade. We've had no outside goods for years."

As the pirates drop anchor, Ragnthor drives the Tigress into the shore. "Erling, Gisli, run to the house and grab as much food as you can. Tell your mother. And hurry, I'll keep them here." As the children run off her walks to the beach, where a handful of men are beaching a row boat, loaded with casks.

"You mind if we fill up our water while we are here?"

Ragnthor turns and walks into the woods. "As long as the rest of them stay on the ship. Follow me."

As they walk through the trees one of the steps close. "Those aren't normal scars. I have them myself. Those of a pit fighter."

He sighs as a history nearly forgotten comes back. "I was a slave. I killed her and freed them all."

Another one looks at his dagger. "A fine weapon, for a man shipwrecked."

His hand settles on the grip, knuckles going white. "It was a gift from a man far greater than I."

Rough hands spin him around and the dagger flies from the sheath and stabs, even as thick green arms pull the man away. A savage voice barks an order. "Leave him alone! I finally recognize him! He is Ragnthor, Reaper of Venerium, Blood-kin to the King of the Orcs. He could kill us all in 2 breaths."

Weapons drop to the ground and the men murmur as the look as the massive scarred man before them. "Let's fill those casks and see you off." He shrugs as he leads them down the trail.

* * *

Lydia stands close to him as the children load the produce into the boat. The Orc comes over to them. "My father fought at Venerium."

He takes his arm off his wife. "Many did."

The squat man nodded. "I am no longer loyal to the king or the strongholds, but I thank you." He holds out a hand.

Only someone who knows Ragnthor as well as themselves would notice the hesitation as he shakes the man's hand. "Just, spread the word in decent ports of where we are. I would prefer not to have my children exposed to you kind of life. You, though, are welcome so long as your men are under control and you do no prey in my waters."

"Of course. We owe you our lives." He turns and joins the men launching the boat.

As the children run a head of them as they take the long way back, Lydia grabs his rough hand. "Where is Venerium? What happened there for you to get so angry? You have told me so little of the year you were away."

He sighs, upset that his past is surfacing. "Venerium was a Breton town about 3 days travel inside the borders of the Orcish kingdom. I burned it to the ground at the head of an Orcish horde, as a favor to the king."

Her hands flew to her mouth. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Because I owed him a debt."

She looks at him, horrified. "What kind of debt is paid back by wholesale slaughter?"

His shoulders sag as he is forced to confront what happened to him for the first time in decades. "2 months after leaving Whiterun, I was taken as a slave. I had rescued the woman who would become one of the King's wives and was captured. For almost 3 months I was tortured in every manner, forced to kill. I freed myself and everyone there, only to find the army of the king besieging the castle. To rescue me. He healed my wounds, I most likely would have had to cut off my right hand if not more, and helped to heal the broken mess that was my mind. I did not lie to you that day in Whiterun, I have been part of the worst things that can happen in this world."

He didn't know what to expect so he was thankful she turns and hugs him, hot tears spilling on to his chest. "I'm so sorry love. I didn't know."

He wraps her tight. "I know, and if the gods were kind you never would have. It is an old wound, though poorly healed." He sees the children, fighting again. "Though now the outside world knows we are here, Erling, at least, will need to learn to fight. Gisli too, if she wants."

* * *

The next day he walks out and drops a sheathed sword in front of Erling. The boy pulls it out. "This is your sword Da."

"It is. The time has come for you to learn it."

Erling, strong and wiry, still struggles to lift the massive blade. "It's heavy."

He looks up at his father as Ragnthor draws another and spins it around him. "In 3 months it will be as light as a switch in your hand. Swing at me."

Erling swings. _Slow and clumsy_ he thinks as he parries the blow. "Again. Harder."

They exchange blows, then Ragnthor walks him through what they did again. Knowledge and strength.

It's not long before Gisli comes running over. "Let me try Da!"

He chuckles. "Alright." He hands her the sword and the blade falls toward the sand.

The slight girl strains but still can't lift the massive blade. She looks up at him with pleading eyes and he laughs. "Alright little one. Lydia, Bring Me One Of The Shorter Blades Please!"

Lydia walks out of the house with on, nervous look on her face. But from where Ragnthor stands, disinterested, he sees her form change. Changes to one more suited to wear plate armor than the simple dress she wears, sword looking like it was made for her hand.

"Who…"

The wolf huffs from where he lays. "Another Lydia, from another time. That leaf the Khajiit gave you is a blunt tool, as you discovered in the first few hours. Even with proper guidance, other seeps though."

As she get close to her husband she changes back, back to the slim woman, skin brown from the sun.

* * *

Time begins to speed as he trains his children. Years flow by, Erling becoming a fine warrior and Gisli a beautiful young woman. Pirate raids come and are fought off, with Ragnthor and his children earning new scars. At 18, Erling takes passage on a ship that stops and travels to the Tamriel, stealing his father's armor and sword. Gisli stays to watch over their aging parents, taking on a life long burden.

He feels the sun beating down on him as he struggles to tie the branches together. His arms, once massive, have shrunken with age. A voice calls out to him, Lydia.

"You promised me you would stay out of the sun."

He turns, shading his eyes. "You are right, I'm coming." He grabs her outstretched hand.

As they walk to the house he is struck by how beautiful she is. She has aged like a fine wine, only growing more beautiful in her old age, grey hair still thick, movements still graceful.

They walk into the house where Gisli is finishing their meal. He sits heavily, breathing labored. "Has there been any word from Erling?"

Gisli gives her mother a pained look and forces a smile. "No, Da. Today's captain didn't have any news."

"Ragnthor," Lydia says as he places a plate of fruit with some pork in front of him, "there hasn't been any news for years."

"He was always a good boy. I'm sure we will hear something soon."

* * *

He lies in bed, struggling for breath. Lydia his holding his hand, face a smiling mask. Gisli stands over him, wiping his brow, tears streaming down her face.

"When I left…Whiterun…I never thought…that this…is how I'd…die."

Lydia rubs his bearded face. "Oh my love…"

"But I am glad…for this. Because…I have my…2 beautiful girls…by my side." He takes a shuddering breath and a fresh wave of silent tears bursts from Gisli's eyes. "Gisli?"

"Y-yes Da?"

"Fetch my sword. I wish…to pass as…a warrior."

The woman looks at her mother, eyes painful. "Ma?"

She nods. "It's alright…" Gisli reaches down and puts a long stick in her father's waiting hands.

"Thank you. Thank you…for a life…worthy of a god…" With one last, shuddering breath, Ragnthor passes from the world.

Ragnthor's hand goes to his chest as he feels himself die. "What…"

"You are 64 years old," growls the wolf. "Extraordinary for this time, an eternity for the one from Haloga, but not your longest life. Lydia will pass before 3 months are gone, heart killed at this moment, will to live sapped completely. Gisli, knowing no other life or land, will also spend the rest of her life here."

* * *

He surges up, hand still gripping his chest, breaths coming hard. "What…The…Hell! I have…to get…out of here! Need…to go…south."

A voice rising from the woods to his left startles him. "I don't think so."

Ragnthor turns to see a Redguard pointing a sword at him. "Who…are you?"

"Waynek. And you, you great fucking ox, owe me 2 new sections of fence that you ran through in your night terrors. Then you will help me round up 200 head of cattle and 50 of my best broodmares. Or I will make sure you have no safe place in Cyrodiil, Champion of the Isles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This is not what I planned to work on. I'm actually a third done with the next Dragonborn Comes Home chapter, so far it's a 1000+ word history lesson about Brul and Brunhil, Fall of the Falmer, elves in general, the Death of Ysgramor, stuff like that. Gotta teach Lucia why she is responsible for the current state of the Falmer. But as I wrote, this was burning a whole in my heart. So I got it out. It took like 3 weeks but I am proud of what I have done here. Trippy little drug sequence. And I have the next story for this planned out. It Might be a long one, even for me. But anyway, I hope you enjoy. And see if you can find the line that I rewrote 10 times in 3 different emotions and still hate. And the clue to the next major fluff arc.


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